


(remember me, love,) when i'm reborn

by untilwefallinlove



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Healing, Light Smut, Multi, Natasha Romanov/Reader - Freeform, Violence, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-01-22 19:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilwefallinlove/pseuds/untilwefallinlove
Summary: It feels too heavy to be coincidence, so weighted that it could be fate.You were crafted in the depths of HYDRA, another soldier to serve their purpose. In a series of events that unravel, you vow to destroy your creator and forever disappear with the only one that has ever mattered to you. But when you meet his best friend, you are forced to realize that you hold far, more secrets than you ever intended.(This will follow the events of Winter Soldier and Civil War)





	1. Prologue: Unmade

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! this is the first fic i've ever posted online, but i have plenty on my computer, trying to find the courage to post them lol. so, maybe i finally will now!
> 
> i plan for this fic to be about 10 chapters and follow the plots of Winter Soldier and Civil War! but to start, i have a prologue, just because i wanted to explain a little backstory before really jumping in :)  
> forgive me for any spelling or grammar errors!
> 
> feedback is extremely welcome and i'd greatly appreciate it!! thank you!!
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

**1991**

The lights above your head are glaring and too-bright, too artificial. You feel like an insect beneath a microscope, a specimen to be examined and poked and prodded at. There is nothing forgiving about it or the cold, ringing metal that surrounds you. It is cavernous and damp, with rows upon bitter, ugly rows of cells. Cages behind metal bars. It makes you squirm in the hospital bed they have brought in, propped you up on to give the comfort of _science_ and _medicine._

Your sister, older, more stoic looks onward with glittering, glass eyes in the bed beside yours. She looks as if she feels nothing, she is serene and perfect even under these, horrible, garish lights. She is everything. 

She is all you have left.

You try and burn through memories to recall parents or other siblings; a home, maybe. You can’t remember any of it. The furthest back you can recall is the tall, looming, black trees in an unforgiving Russian forest. Your sister’s hand, still small, clutching yours, dragging you on in the wet and cold snow that burns your legs to get through.

You were younger than your sister when they took you. 

You think she remembers more of the horrors, she shoulders the weight of getting you here, to this very moment. In a hospital bed. In a steel trap. With HYDRA scientists and soldiers bustling around you, barking orders in Russian. 

You don’t blame her. She was just a child, so were you. There was nothing to be done. There is nothing to be done.

You watch as a doctor slips an IV into your sister’s forearm, finds the vein with ease. She barely moves as he does it. And you watch as the bright, near glowing, near ethereal blue bag of liquids drains into her arm with a slow pulsing.

_“Day mne svoyu ruku,”_ A man besides you says, voice quiet. He is in a lab coat, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He almost seems nervous, worried, as if being in a room full of world-class assassins concerns him, _“Pozhaluysta,”_ He adds just as soft. 

You comply, but it reminds you of how easily it would be to throw him off. To kill him. Your eyes flicker out over the room; even some of the foot soldiers with guns across broad chests that are meant to intimidate you. They don’t. The only one that does is the man in the corner, with hair in front of his eyes. With the gleam or unnatural metal at his shoulder. 

You turn your arm over for the doctor but your eyes stay glued to the man in the shadows. He looks lifeless, unnaturally still and predatory. 

And then his eyes snap to yours, as if he can feel you. 

His eyes are endlessly dark. 

They hold yours, pin you to your place as you feel the prick of the needle in your forearm. You _hate_ needles. Hate doctors and surgeons and _experiments_. But you breathe through your nose, exhale slow. Your sister is still beside you, she does not react to the serum that is slowly pushed into her bloodstream.

The man’s eyes are still on you as the doctor silently hooks up your IV to your own bag of vivid, blue liquids. Without warning, it slides down the tube and into your arm. You can’t look away from him. And he can’t seem to look away from you. 

Your arm flares, the needle suddenly feels too hot, too much. It sears through you, fire licking up your arm, up your pulsing and straining vein. You pull your eyes from the man of shadows, brows pulling together in confusion, in _fear._ You look at your sister for confirmation, for relief; is it burning her, too? Is this _normal?_

She still seems serene, as if it is nothing. You glance around at the others in hospital beds, at the small army they are creating. No one seems to react until—

A man in a hospital bed across from you suddenly tightens, seizes, thrashing against the bed uncontrollably. And then he howls in agony, his cries echoing in the underground world where they are bounced and tossed around the stone walls carelessly. The sound rattles around in your head, lost and trapped in there. Doctors rush to his side, soldiers try to keep him down. 

Your arm is on fire. The pain increases steadily. Your heartbeat suddenly sky rockets; you feel feverish, sweat dampening your brow, heat sweeping through your chest. 

And then the man across from you goes still. Unnaturally so. 

Another begins screaming and they wheel him out fast. You don’t know where they’re taking him. Your head whips back to your sister— what is happening to them? Are they not surviving the procedure? You think of your sister suddenly seizing, eyes rolling into the back of her head and you don’t think you’d be able to take that, you don’t think you’d _live_ through that one—

Heat races up your spine, straight into your head. Pain blooms white hot, burning, crushing, _snapping_ until you go rigid all over. Your muscles spasm. 

Your vision whites out. There are hands on you and there is pain, fire in your head and your chest. You feel as if your bones are _stretching_ inside of you, as if you are in liquid fire, too bright, too much. The light swings over your head, hands are suddenly on you, touching and grasping and you are _nothing_ but this pain. 

You feel as if you are collapsing from the inside out, all supernova and fury and agony. It rips through you, feels as if you have been cut open. You scream. This is your destruction. Your blazing, horrible end. 

Your sister’s face swims before your eyes. She is saying something in Russian, you do not know what, it all comes garbled and far away. You fight for her, fight the black spots that crowd your vision. But it makes the pain far, _far_ worse. Unknown to you, your screaming grows louder, more guttural, as if you are being torn apart. 

You give in, collapse inward like some dying star, and are maybe, even grateful, when the darkness sweeps in to claim you as his own.

* * *

By some vast and unknown miracle, you wake.

And there is darkness, there is nothing at first besides the ache and pain that you feel all the way in your teeth. You feel as if you’ve been torn in two, stitched back together roughly, then thrown into a fire. You feel burnt and fatigued. But there is a dim light not far from you. There are cool stones beneath your back. There is more than this pain, you are more than pain now. 

You find your breath, take comfort in the way that it fills your lungs. You become aware of a weight on either side of you, the skin of another, but it is cool to the touch. Deathly. 

You sit up slow, working your tired muscles. Your head spins for a moment, but you steady and when you look down, you realize you are surrounded by a handful of dead bodies. This is not your first encounter with the reaper, with corpses. Your heart barely skips a beat. You reach over, your fingers brushing one neck, another wrist. 

There are six dead around you. But you are not. They must’ve thought you dead. 

Your memories return through the fog; the serum, the pain, your sister. You crawl forward, where the dim lights illuminates the bars of a prison cell you must’ve been thrown in when they thought you hadn’t survived the procedure. You blink, hands grasping the cool metal. 

And you call out; your sisters name first. There is no response. Just emptiness. 

Then you try, _“Ya zhivoy!”_ Your voice is strained, but you call out again; _I am alive,_ you tell them, you almost plead. For a long, horrible moment, you believe there is no one left. They have all disappeared, left you to die here. You think you will need to escape yourself and then what? And then what? 

But then there are footsteps, boots against wet stone. 

_What is that commotion?_ One soldier asks. 

_This way,_ the other replies. 

A beam of light cuts through the darkness and as if you are a creature born from shadow, you skitter away from it, hissing through clenched teeth, fingers squabbling at the metal bars. It pains your eyes, unused to the sudden light. But they come towards you all the same. Their flashlights bare down you, force you into the light, unable to get away, trapped like an insect beneath a microscope. 

One soldier’s mouth falls open. The other’s eyes blaze as they look down at you, full of awe and maybe fear and wonder. 

_Would you look at that,_ one muses in rolling Russian, back from the dead. 

You were never dead, you decide, you want to sneer back. You were unmade, maybe. You don’t like the looks in their eyes, though, the way they try to expose you with light, blinding and hurtful. You want your sister. 

_Pretty face,_ the other continues as if you are not there, reaching for the loop of keys on his belt. His gun is across his chest. 

_For a ghost. For a witch. For what she is._

You wait, the keys rattle, clink as they reach to unlock the cell. _We’ll bring her back to Karpov, he’ll decide what to do with her._

One unlocks the cage, reaches in for you with gripping hands. Reflexively, you go to twist his wrist. You’ll walk— you don’t want hands on you— but the bone shatters beneath your surprising strength. He screams in pain. Gives you a curse. The other reaches for you, threatening, imposing. 

You dislocate his shoulder with a slight pull. You’re on top of him in moments. One, two punches and his skull is crushed beneath your bloody fists. The one with a broken wrist stares in horror before he starts yelling for backup, before he tries to raise his gun. 

Your eyes flash. 

You shouldn’t have broken bones, crushed a skull with something so simple unless, unless—

Unless the serum worked. And you are stronger and faster than these men. You look down at the blood on your knuckles, at the man’s crushed facial bones beneath you. 

You itch to release energy suddenly, bursting like a supernova, new and burning. You surge upward in a rush of adrenaline, too swift for the soldier’s eyes to follow. He fires aimlessly, lighting up the cell in sudden pops of light. You duck low, bullets whistling past your head, your ears. You grab the end of the gun and it crumples beneath the strength of your grip. You tear it from his grasp—

Before you know it, there are more surrounding you. More gunfire. But you are swift and full of fury, full of serum they pumped full of you. Then left you to die. You crackle with this new energy and life. You wipe through these men, these simple, base men with nothing in their bloodstream.  

The only one that is able to stop you is the man you’d seen with dark eyes before you’d been unmade; they're blue, you realize faintly, deeply and darkly blue, as he shoves you against the wall with a metal arm. You taste blood in your mouth. But he holds your eyes and maybe you see a flicker of something there before the air leaves your lungs in a _whoosh_ and darkness rushes in to hold you once more.

* * *

 Your reunion with your sister hadn’t been special or tear-filled. They never have been. But she’d grabbed you too hard by the back of the neck and hissed, “I thought you were dead.” 

And that is the most she will come to say that she was scared, that is the most her face will betray. 

“Surprise,” You say, a smirk that touches your lips. And maybe one touches hers, too. But she remains stern, shoves you away. 

“Don’t do it again.” She snaps as if you have this control over death. And despite yourself, you laugh, let it echo and rattle in this new hell you live in together. 

You are brought to train with the other assassins, with your sister. You need to master this new strength. Vasily Karpov oversees you all, he is your handler. He trains and beats any sort of rebellion out of you until all you know are his commands and voice. 

You and your sister are smart. You do not rebel. You don’t need to lose your mind to him. You are his favorites, besides the one with a metal arm. But he needs electroshock therapy to be controlled. He needs to forget whoever he was to comply. 

(There is a red notebook Karpov keeps, he scribbles in when he is ruining the one with the metal arm and his screams are all that you hear for hours on end. You are curious as to what is in the book, but know not to try and look. You have Karpov’s trust. You don’t want to risk losing it. You know there is another book Karpov keeps, a blue one, that is about you, but you know it is not nearly as filled as the red one). 

And so, your training intensifies and you realize quickly that though, to mortal man, you are leagues stronger and faster, to the rest of the assassins, you are decidedly not. Karpov dubs you the runt of the litter, weaker than the others. You have a hard time keeping up. Your handlers, Karpov, know not what to do with you; not quite strong enough to run with the big dogs, not quite useless, though, either. 

But you are compliant so long as your sister is, so long as your sister is alive, too. They don’t make the connection because they are not concerned with your lives, with relationships. Karpov believes you already broken, like the way they break others when they disobey, when they realize they seem like gods compared to their handlers. 

It is always the first, the man with the metal arm that protects the handlers. He is obedient. But you are certain it is only because he knows nothing else; they fry him until he knows nothing else. So you pretend to know nothing, too. You don’t want to end up in the same chair, mind melting. You have already been unmade. You refuse to let them remake you this time. It will be of your own hands. 

But they use you and your sister as security against any others that might go rogue. They use the man with a metal arm. You don’t know his name. He is referred to as soldier, as asset, as weapon, and nothing else. You use your sister’s name in the echoing, infinite darkness when there is no one but the two of you. She says your name back, soft and foreign on her tongue. 

And in the moments when you are near _him_ and it is just the two of you and the darkness, you wish you could say his name, too.

* * *

 The years roll onward. You aren’t deployed on missions as much as the others; not quick, violent missions. Every so often they send you undercover, which is where you excel, you become a new person, with a new name, and you play a part. You are good with puzzles and webs and lies; you are patient. You wait until you can pull on a single thread and watch the entire thing come undone. And then you return and they freeze you. 

When you are not in use, you are asleep. 

Karpov praises you over the years, low rumbling Russian words when you return successful. You see little of your sister. 

You ask of her sometimes, use her codename they gave her, not the name you’ve known since you could speak. Karpov trusts you, so he tells you she is alive. He leaves you out of ice longer and longer. He likes your company, you think. 

And one day, you ask about the one with the metal arm. Karpov cocks his head at you, almost amused, as if you are a pet that has done something funny or strange. You bat innocent eyes at him, remaining unreadable. He tells you that he is alive, too. 

You can’t recall why or when, but eventually Karpov trusts you with delivering the red book to him when he needs it, sending you away to put it back. He trusts you to be in the room when they reprogram the Winter Soldier, as some have begun to call him. You think, maybe, a part of him feels safer with you here; he trusts you to protect him should all go awry. 

(He isn’t wrong to do so, but he isn’t right, either. Your loyalty is based on your sister’s life, on how it benefits you. You are not as mindless as he thinks). 

You watch with feigned disinterest as they electrocute him, as he screams, teeth clamped tight around a guard. Karpov watches your face closely; you feel like an insect beneath a microscope again. Your heart beats faster. It is _awful_ to watch and to hear. But you remain seemingly unmoved by him. You have to, with your handler’s eyes on you. 

You want this trust, it is useful for you. And after the Winter Soldier is seemingly incoherent and sated, slumped in the chair like some sort of ragdoll, the doctors begin to clean him up and  ready him for more cryogenic stasis. But he surges, grips one by neck with that unforgiving, metal arm. The snap of the doctor’s neck rattles around the room. An order from Karpov and you surge forward. 

You help contain him. His eyes are wild as they find yours. And you remember a day when he helped them contain you. Your heart twists, lurches unexpectedly. Karpov electrocutes him again, until he is drooling. And now, they ask you to prep him for cryogenic stasis, fearful that he will suddenly kill another scientists, another doctor. You are the only one they trust. You are the only one that wouldn’t die at his hands immediately. 

You and Karpov bring him to a shower chamber where he is usually simply doused in cold water and carried away. But you are careful and take your time, running a rag over wounds he has acquired. His eyes are unseeing. You can feel Karpov still watching you. He does not question your motives, nor command you to do anything differently. 

Later, you catch him writing in his blue book. The one about you. The pages fill over time.

It becomes your job to prep the Winter Soldier for cryogenic stasis. Karpov teaches you his trigger words, should you ever need them. You commit them to memory, tuck them deep inside your ribcage, next to your heart. You will never use them, you vow, even if you’d need them. 

And finally, after many, broken years, you learn his name. 

Not soldier, not asset, not weapon. Not Winter Soldier. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

And you commit that name to memory, too, a secret that is for some reason infinitely tender and intimate. Your sister is the only one who has every referred to you by name. When was the last time he’d heard his name? His real name? It haunts you and grips you.

You are called to always prep James for cryogenic stasis now, to wash wounds, rinse him off. You keep your clothes on as you bring him beneath the cool stream of water. You are sure to take his clothes off before, though, to redress him in something dry and clean afterwards. You try to give him small mercies after you watch the torture they wreak on him. You are more tender with him than you have been with anything in your whole, wicked life.

Karpov stops accompanying you eventually. The first time you are alone with him, your heart trips over itself. You lean him against the tile wall, wash cloth hovering over a wound on his shoulder. You are still, eyes flying over his face. He is seemingly unseeing, blank faced. His hair is soaked and you gently push it from his face. He is handsome. It is not the first time you are struck by this. You wonder who he was before it all, what his smile looks like. 

You suddenly wish to be able to take him from here, to hide him from Karpov, from the others. You wish you could take him and your sister and hide. And rest. You wish you could offer him peace, you realize, fingers touching his furrowed brow. In the between moments, he always looks confused, lost. Haunted. You want more suddenly, for yourself, for your sister. For him. An ache settles in your chest, uncomfortable and immovable. 

But all you can give him is a reprieve from the horrors, a gentle touch. His name. 

“James.” You whisper tentatively, tasting it on your lips for the first time since you have read it. 

Your eyes fly upward, as if someone will catch you. But there is no one except the two of you and the darkness. The water rains down, making your clothes cling to your skin, uncomfortable and chilled. You don’t know how he’ll react if you try again, if you force him to hear you. Will he spiral? Will this only cause him more pain? 

You try again anyways, wanting his eyes to see you, “James,” You murmur. 

And he blinks. Slow, sluggish. His eyelashes, wet and dark, flutter. Your heart pounds. 

Once more, “James.” Your voice is breathless, almost a plea for him to hear. 

And his eyes turn to you, impossibly blue and brilliant and in pain. You almost gasp, almost stumble away from him in your surprise. His breathing changes, as if he has risen from sleep. You stare at each other. Your eyes fly over his face, searching for signs of madness or confusion, of the need to subdue him again. There is none at the moment. 

Then, so quietly you fear you are imagining it, he tells you, “Bucky.” 

And you cling to his voice, rough from screaming, from misuse. “Bucky?” You repeat, heart squeezing. A nickname, you realize faintly. He has remembered a nickname. 

He nods, a slow dipping of his chin. Then he reaches out and you hold impossibly still, barely breathing, before the fingers of his flesh hand graze across the plain of your cheek. “And yours?” He rasps.

You tell him in a rush of quiet air, desperate for another person to know it. To know you. More desperate than you had ever thought or realized until this dizzying moment. He repeats it, quiet and low. And you nod, too, a quick jerk of your head. His eyes are clearer than you’d ever seen them before. He gazes at you with an intensity that you would usually shy away from, shrink away from. 

But something is blooming in your chest, quiet and glittering and warm and you don’t dare try to stop it. It mingles with an ache, painful and sharp, because you realize, faintly, he will not remember your name the next time you see him. You only see him after he has gone through immeasurable amounts of pain.

He tells you, though, a soft rush of air, “Thank you.” 

And you commit the moment to _your_ memory _for_ him. For you, too.

* * *

 The next time you prep him for cryogenic sleep, once more hovering over him beneath the cold water, you say his name again. You say _James_ , petal soft and then you try _Bucky_  with a gentle coaxing to your tone. 

When his eyes fall on you again, you fully expect him to ask for your name again. To be stuck in a loop. Especially as he reaches out again, touches your cheek and you let him, lean into the touch you never realized you wanted. His eyes flicker over you, as if being sure you are real, as if trying to remember. 

It hurts worse than you’d thought, for him not to recall your name. You try and swallow it down. And you’re about to give your name to him again when he rumbles, “I remember you.” And he says your name finally, brushes his fingers down to your jaw. You shiver, pretend it was because of the water. 

“I always remember you.” He breathes, as if you haunt him. You wonder how many others haunt him, too.

* * *

 Karpov orders you back into cryogenic stasis, in a chamber besides James. You don’t know where your sister is. You comply. And when you wake up, Karpov is long, long gone.

* * *

**2011**

The first face you see upon reentering the world once more is of Alexander Pierce. And he smiles at you, as if you are a wonder, as if you are a gift to him. In his hands, you see a familiar, blue book. 

_“Gde Karpov?”_ You ask, eyes falling to the book.

“What’d she say?” Pierce asks the man beside him. 

“She asked for her old handler.” He responds, then flings his eyes to you and beneath the stoic mask you see fear. _Yes,_ you think, _be fearful of me._ But he barks out at you with false bravado, over aggressive, as if to startle you, “Use English only, soldat.” 

You don’t even bat an eye. But you smile at him, slow, “My apologies. Where is Karpov?” You repeat your question and then,  “And where is—“

“Your sister?” Pierce finishes before you can. You were going to use her code name, which in English is something like Vulture. But you nod nonetheless. Karpov must’ve noted it in his little, blue book. Your curiosity for it grows, as well as for the red one that you have not seen in many, many years.

“Alive.” He continues, dragging you away from your thoughts, “Out on a mission for me now. I’ll let you see her when she returns, if that’s what you’d like.” And he offers you another smile, as if he is being generous. 

“Thank you,” You say because you know it is what he wants. He seems pleased with this for a moment. Then his eyes study you once more, roving over you. 

“As for your first question,” He begins, almost diplomatic, “Karpov is retired. I borrowed these from him.” He holds up the blue book of yours, and then another, achingly familiar red book. Your heart seizes. You remain stoic, though, eyes casting a glance to the cryogenic chamber beside your own. It is too foggy, you cannot tell if it’s James inside or not. 

“You three were his favorites, ya know.” Pierce continues conversationally, “The Winter Soldier because he was his first; his Adam, if you will.” And then, “Your sister because she was complacent. A little standoffish, but obedient. And you,” Pierce finds your eyes, “Because you were loyal.” 

He is not wrong, but he is not right, either. You are quiet. 

“I would like to have that loyalty with you, too, as your new handler.” He announces, “And I don’t want you living in the shadows any longer.” He tells you, “I am Alexander Pierce. And Karpov used to call you— what was it in English?” He peers into your face, “Sparrow?” 

It is what is written in his little, blue book of you. 

You nod, slowly. 

“What would you like to be called?” 

And against your better judgement, you give him your real name.

* * *

You are a great help to Pierce, he tells you so often. You don’t know if Karpov told him or if he read in one of the books, but he somehow knows that you harbor certain affections for James. Or perhaps knows you have an interest in him, that the two of you have some sort of relationship. He encourages you after James is done with a mission; 

“Take care of him. Isn’t that what you had done?” He asks absently, “Cleaned his wounds and whatnot.” He waves it off dismissively, "Is that something you still want to do?” 

And you nod, because it is and you know Pierce likes to be right. 

It is the first time in a long time since you have seen him. He has not changed. HIs brain is still a disaster thanks to Pierce continually repeating the treatment Karpov used to give him, too. But you are grateful to see him again, far more than you realize. You lay him against the tile walls of the shower in your new facility, much like you had at the old. The water is warmer here. You let it run over you, soak your clothes. It is smaller here, you kneel beside him, nearly hovering over him and run a cloth over a wound on his flesh arm. 

“James,” You whisper after a moment, “Bucky,” You sigh again, as you did many times, many years ago. You watch as he blinks at you, chest rising and falling beneath your hand. 

He breathes your name. 

And you smile, unable to help it. His hand reaches out like it always did, brushes the pads of his fingers against your cheek. Now against the corner of your lips, unsure if he has ever seen you smile. 

“I thought you were an angel once,” He admits quietly, “I didn’t think you were real.”

And now a laugh bubbles out of you, a little empty, but echoes around the small shower because you were far, far from an angel. But he’s looking at you like you could be holy, like you could be something lovely. He is being serious. 

You sober and tell him, “Hardly.” 

“You were to me.” He responds, presses his fingers down to your jaw. To your neck. You shiver and it is not because of the chilled water this time. He notes it, eyes falling to your neck and shoulders. It makes you warm, flush suddenly. You shift, lean closer. His fingers trace downward, over the line of your collar bone. Your breath hitches. 

His eyes sharpen. His metal hand takes your waist in hand, pulls you forward, closer. You fall into straddling his waist. His body is bare beneath yours. Your hands fall onto his shoulders and he keeps pulling until you collide, like reckless stars, damned and desperate, and there is nothing but his lips on yours for a searing, bright moment. 

It is unexpected but the moment it happens, you set fire like dry kindle to hungry, devouring flame. “James,” You gasp against his lips and he _groans,_ low and guttural. His hand pushes at your sopping t-shirt, metal hand palming at your bare stomach. 

Everything happens dizzyingly fast; kiss turning sloppy as he works your clothes off. It’s been _so fucking long_ since you’ve been this close to anyone and there is no preamble, there is no nuance or charm. But you don’t need any, you realize, flushed and warm and melting against him. It’s just you, just him, and half bitten out praises from him as he tosses your drenched clothes aside.

“So pretty,” He mouths along your neck, sucks a deep red mark there. You’d wish it’d stay, wish your body wouldn’t heal it. To remind him. To remind you. It all aches, in your core, in your chest because you don’t know how much he’ll remember. They’ll just tear you from his mind again, shock him back into being soldier and weapon. Not yours. Not James, not Bucky. 

There is nothing pretty about this; nails across backs, bruising grips on your waist, teeth in shoulders. He pushes into you with a growl and you cry out. Embarrassingly, you’re more ready for him than you’d realized. Your cheeks flush deeply, down to your chest. He still burns and stretches you, makes you whimper and gasp when he starts moving. It is unforgiving. But you can’t get enough of him, pulling at his hair, moving over him.

“So _fucking_ perfect—“ He gets out, low and in his throat and when he looks up at you with blazing, blue eyes, you swear to God you’ll never fucking forget him like this. 

“My name,” He pleads suddenly and you know exactly what he needs. You won’t make him beg for it. 

“James,” You gasp into his mouth, “ _Fuck, James—_ “ And he groans low against your chest, lets it reverberate through you. And you can _feel_ him all over, he is everything and never ending. 

But it’s over as quickly as it had started. You’re both too pent up, too starved, and finish within seconds of one another. There is nothing pretty or soft or loving about it. He is brutal and desperate and clinging to you. Your nails are in his back, one hand tangled too tightly in his hair. You wish your marks would stick. 

He is surprisingly sweet after, kissing your cheek, the corner of your lips, your jaw. For once, he washes you instead, soft with the hands that you have only ever seen be violent and killing. He traces the lines of your body with his palms, with the wash cloth. 

You stay with him until he recedes back into his mind. Until you can bring him back out, redressed as if nothing has happened, as if he is still a weapon. Still the Winter Soldier. 

The next time you are alone with him in the warm showers, he remembers you, can recall in splintered, fleeting images of what happened. He tells you it felt like a dream, _you felt like a dream._ You could sob because he remembers. He kisses you slower the next time, tries to learn your body. You call him _Bucky,_ sweet and gentle and he unravels. He’s still desperate, still needy and a little too rough, but he’s slower.

As if he’s trying to savor you, trying to commit you to his ruined memory. 

Whereas you’re certain you could never forget him.

* * *

 Weeks go on. You see your sister as Pierce promised, fleeting moments. She has receded further into herself, whereas you have never felt more like yourself. Pierce does not hide you away; you become his assistant. You hold his secrets between your lips, soft and unassuming. 

He is a council member on the Secretary of World Defense for SHIELD (HYDRA). No one assumes anything of you, that you are also, secretly his protection. He trusts you.

He isn’t wrong to do so, but he isn’t right, either. 

He believes you have become domesticated. That you like this life that he has so graciously given you. But every time your sister is sent away again, every time James is brought to the brink of his sanity, your patience begins to crack. Chip away. He shouldn’t have brought you out into the light of the world, into society. He shouldn’t have given you a taste of freedom. Karpov was smarter this way. And this storm in your chest is years in the making, slowly building something, ready for it to explode. 

And the final blow that shatters it all, that makes all of it come crashing down around you, is your sister’s death. 

Died in action. Pierce does not let you mourn her. He believes you don’t care much. He underestimates you, throws you back into work. 

You swallow your resentment as he speaks to you day in and day out. As you wear nice, domesticated dresses and heels and look prim and proper. He thinks he has declawed you in some way, forgotten that you are dangerous. Forgotten what you had been unmade to do. 

So he sets a file in front of you one day, “This is my everything,” He tells you, unknowing and naive, “My masterpiece. All that I have worked towards, all that HYDRA has worked towards.” 

You look down at it, knowing what it is you want to destroy now, to tear apart before you inevitably destroy him, before you disappear. You’ll take James, too, you vow, just after you ruin every last one of them.

So you read in big, bold letters, your final job of espionage and unraveling;

**PROJECT INSIGHT.**


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Steve Rogers, uncover some more secrets, and work on setting your long-winding plan into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! i first want to say thank you SO much for the kind words and kudos! it's really inspired me to keep going with this story and to continue posting as well as given me confidence to post more! it means the world to me!!   
> i have some more fics and drabbles in the works! a stucky x reader 1920s AU as well as other little one shots! so keep an eye out! 
> 
> now we finally get into some of the story! please tell me what you think! thank you again!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

**2012, Almost 2013**

Alexander Pierce introduces you to Steve Rogers at a New Years Eve party hosted by Tony Stark in the bitter cold of January. Snow flutters from darkened skies, cascading over the city in twirling, delicate circles that blanket the rooftops you can look out over from Stark’s tall, open windows. It glitters under city lights, serene and dreamy.

“Captain Rogers,” Pierce shakes his hand, cordial as always, offering a smile. 

Your eyes fall on Steve Rogers for the first time and you know less about him than you should. You know he was a World War II hero, you know everyone thought he was dead, you know that he risked his life to save New York recently. You know it is  _ his _ serum that runs through your blood, too. But other than that, you are not intimately familiar with the legend that stands before you.

He’s handsome and darling faced, though. Golden, swept hair away from his forehead, pretty, light blue eyes and clean shaven. He’s in a button up, a brown, leather jacket and slacks. A little outdated, he sticks out among the ritzy, fashionable higher-ups that schmooze and gamble and dance at parties like these. 

He is clutching a drink in his hand, knuckles white around the glass and you are surprised it hasn’t shattered under his strength yet. Surprised still because he can’t get drunk. Surely, he knows this. Your eyes flicker, almost in amusement. Is he holding it for appearances? Is he  _ nervous?  _

“It’s good to see you again.” Pierce continues, dropping his hand from Roger’s. And he turns to you, gestures, “And I don’t believe you’ve met my assistant yet,” He continues smoothly, introducing you. 

You offer a smile, warm and bright. The one you give when you are trying to be unassuming and charming. Pierce likes this face, especially when meeting new people for him. He puffs his chest out proudly at you, as if you are something of his that is worth showing off. 

You take Steve’s large hand to shake and become incredibly aware of the rough, calloused skin of his palm. He may look sweet-faced and boyish but the large, rough hand that encompasses yours reminds you otherwise. His own eyes fall to your hands for a moment, narrowing slightly at the nicks and scars that litter your hand, no doubt feeling the same calluses that mark you both as fighters. 

He’s too expressive, too open. You can practically see the suspicion in his face, the curiosity that has bloomed as he picks his eyes up to find yours and smiles. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Captain Rogers,” You say, hand lingering in his for a moment too long. You’re not sure if it’s because he held to you, or you held to him.

“Likewise,” He says politely and there is an old-fashioned charm to him. He has not adjusted to modern day yet and it is almost endearing, “And please,” He continues, a little softer for you, “Call me Steve.”

“Steve.” You say, tasting his name on your tongue, savoring the way his eyes brighten, the way his smile gets a little crooked at the corner. 

Pierce gets pulled away by another higher-up, someone  _ you know _ is connected to HYDRA, masquerades as SHIELD. You flicker your eyes back to Steve and he is tense again, nervous, as he’s left alone with you. He takes a sip of his drink. 

You’re certain that everyone here has perhaps thanked him or spoken to him about the battle of New York, about what he did. Perhaps even his days of war. And for some reason, you don’t want to be like the rest to him. You don’t know what it is about him;  maybe because your serum comes from his, maybe because he doesn’t seem to quite fit in, either, but you want him to remember you. 

So, instead of any sort of mundane, simple question you could’ve asked, you begin with, “Do you want to get some fresh air with me?” 

And he almost looks relieved. He nods, agreeing, and as he follows you to the rooftop, he ditches his drink. You feel as if this is an achievement, for some reason. 

You step out into the cold, starless night and watch as your breath comes out between your lips in a puff of air. Steve follows you, stepping beside you as you look out over the glittering, cluttered city. Snow catches on your shoulders, in Steve’s hair. His cheeks turn pink and you want to trace your lips over them. 

You blink. 

“Extravagant parties don’t really seem like your scene,” You speak up, raising your eyes to catch his reaction. 

He smiles a little, it’s traced with sadness, but he quirks a brow at you, “That obvious, huh?”

And you find yourself actually smiling, it is not for Pierce or charm or manipulation. It’s one that you have only given a few, select people; James, your sister. 

Her memory sends a pang through you, but you swallow, push it down. “Only to the observant.” You reply lightly. You step closer to the edge, peering down below. Maybe you should act more afraid of that ledge, more cold, like any other normal person. But you aren’t and for some reason, you want him to see this. 

_ See me, _ you think, as he moves to stand beside you,  _ see more. _ See more than just Pierce’s pet, whether it be his “assistant” in smooth, sleek dresses and heels or his asset.

Your sister saw more of you. James does, in fleeting, splintered moments where his mind is clear enough to recognize you. To recognize his own name. But that list has shrunken and you don’t realize how desperate you are for more, for someone to see more of you until now. 

And then he surprises you and says, “You don’t really look like you belong there, either.” 

You look up at him, a slight smile curling at the corner of your lips which are painted vintage red, “No?” You ask, voice softening unintentionally. 

He shakes his head, “No,” He agrees.

“Then where do you think I belong?” You ask suddenly, turning towards him. And though you’re being playful, there is a note of earnestness in your voice. Where  _ do _ you belong? With the  _ Avengers? _ Fighting for HYDRA? Or SHIELD? Living a normal life? Nothing sounds right. 

Steve smiles, lets out a slight laugh, shaking his head, “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s back there.” 

You bite your bottom lip. His eyes follow the movement. It sends warmth straight into your cheeks, your neck. You don’t think you can ever recall a person like Steve (golden-hearted, kind, and darling faced) has ever had an interest in you. Any of your past lovers have been cut from the same darkness, the same sharpness you harbor. 

You think of James. He is all you have left, but his mind is broken and fragmented. And a quiet, insecure part of you wonders if he had his whole mind, if he wasn’t being tortured, if he wasn’t searching for any scrap of compassion; would he still cling to you? If you weren’t the only woman, only light, only person in his life, would he still want you? 

There are no promises between you and James. There can’t be, not in your lives. 

And  _ fuck, _ you  _ like _ the way Steve is looking at you all clear-eyed and honest and open. There is a lightness in his smile that you want to taste.  

So you tell him, eyes glittering as they look up into his, endless bright and blue, “No,” And you step towards him, closing distance, “I don’t belong back there, either.” 

You hear shouts from below. Counting. Midnight approaches. Another year approaches. 

_ Ten! Nine! Eight… _

“Then, look at us,” Steve says softly, almost a drawl, stepping even closer so that your heart flutters. Faintly, you can hear the Brooklyn accent, the old-school touch to his voice. It almost reminds you of— 

_ Seven! Six! _

“A pair of misfits,” He continues, almost wistful as he looks down at you. As if you are the first good thing he has seen since awakening. 

_ Five! Four!  _

You take the last step between you two. Even in your heels, he is taller and you place your hand on his broad chest. You look up at him with wide, wondering eyes. 

_ Three! Two… _

“Look at us,” You agree softly, just as his broad palm comes to rest on your cheek, sure and gentle and warm. 

_ One! _

And you close any distance that is left, touch your lips to his in a tenderness that you are brand new to. As if he can tell, he deepens the kiss, takes the lead. He is soft and sweet and careful with you. It is so jarringly different than James, than what you’re used to that it makes you gasp, makes your heart ache. Your hand twists in his shirt, the rough edge you can’t seem to get rid of. But he remains soft, draws you a little closer, and you feel as if you could cry. 

You don’t know why. Only that you can’t remember being touched this gently in your whole life. Your heart feels as if it will split open, spill out into Steve Roger’s large, forgiving palms. 

(Little do you know, you are the first person he’s kissed since 1945, since when he went into the ice. You’re aching but he is, too.) 

When he pulls away, he is looking at you with a type of tenderness that you shy away from. Your throat tightens. You don’t deserve that look, the sweetness in the way he kissed you. So you distract yourself by touching his lips, now stained with your lipstick, with your thumb. And he brushes his thumb against your own smeared lipstick, too. You can’t help the smile now, the laugh that suddenly bubbles out of you. 

Your eyes glisten with unshed tears, his cheeks are pink, but you laugh. And you find that his laugh joins yours, too, warm and bright and you try and commit it to memory. Your head ducks shyly, still giggling, and he pulls you into his chest. His arms go around you, warm and protective. 

The city around you cheers and hollers and dances as he holds you. The world spins onward, into a new year, forcing you both into the future. You wrap your arms around Steve, too. Bury your face in his chest. You don’t know if its  _ you _ who needs to be held or  _ him _ but you do so.

And after a moment, he clears his throat, “Are you alone tonight— or, are you— do you want—“

You are surprised to find another laugh falling from your lips as you look up at his red cheeks, at your smeared lipstick still on his lips, at the loveliness of his eyes. So bright and glittering, lashes catching soft snowflakes against his cheeks. You know what he’s trying to ask, you don’t make him squirm.

Against your better judgement, you smile at him, and tell him, “Take me home, Rogers.” 

“Steve,” He corrects soft, with a boyish, crooked smile.

“Steve.” You sigh and follow him off of the roof and to his apartment for the night. 

* * *

 

The next morning, you awake to pale sun streaming through a small window, casting light over your shoulders and bare back. The window sill is piled tall with white, sparkling snow from the previous night. You blink, stretching in the morning sun. 

You are not in your own home, in the apartment so near to Pierce’s home. No doubt he is tracking your phone, seeing where you are, being sure his precious asset is still loyal. Independence because he thinks it’s  _ generous _ but no freedom or privacy. You hate that he has no doubt discovered where you are, that you are in Steve Roger’s apartment. 

You wish you could keep it to yourself. 

You let out a sigh, turning to find an empty bed beside you. You listen for a moment to hear if he’s in the kitchen or bathroom, however nothing but silence greets you. You are slightly surprised that he is gone, and have little idea to where Steve might’ve gone. 

You sit up, sheet falling away from your bare body. You stretch out your back and arms, muscles pleasantly sore from the previous night. 

You’re about to get up, try to find your clothes, and take your leave when you hear the front door of his apartment open and close. Footsteps that grow louder, until he pushes open the bedroom door quietly. 

For some reason, you feel suddenly shy, despite falling asleep beside him with nothing on the previous night. But it’d been dark, dim lighting as he’d undressed you with careful, callused hands. No light to highlight the scars, raised and ridged along your skin. He didn’t linger on them, even if he had noticed them, and you were grateful for it. Though he’s been nothing but kind and warm to you, you do not  _ know _ him. Not that well, at least.

You pull the sheet back up around your front, eyes landing on him as he slips back into his bedroom.

“Did I wake you?” He asks, “I didn’t mean to, just went to go for a run.” 

“No, I just woke up.” You respond, voice still a little raspy from sleep. As you take in his form; the tight, white, t-shirt, and the gym shorts, you know he is telling the truth. Though, you’ve come to expect little else from him. You think he would be a terrible liar. 

Surprisingly, he leans over his bed, brushes a kiss to your cheek. You don’t know what to make of it. Of this. You’ve never stayed the night with anyone, never stayed long enough to have this conversation. And you’ve never had anyone but James brush your cheek with a kiss. Guilt twists suddenly inside of you, sharp and ugly and toxic. You aren’t in any sort of relationship with James, but it feels like a betrayal, in some way. 

You swallow, vow this will be the only and last time you sleep with Steve. With anyone else. 

“Do you want breakfast?” He asks, still close, still hovering near you. Your eyes fall to his lips, pink and soft, glance back to the brilliant blue of his eyes. This is your last time with him, then. And you realize, with a flash, all you want is  _ him. _ Just once more. “I’m not much of a cook but—“  

You turn your face up to his, catch his lips in a kiss. His voice dies against you and he sinks down, into the kiss, and over you as he rumbles a low moan at your eagerness. You wrap your arms around his neck, drag him down on top of you as you fall back against the soft pillows of his bed. He catches himself over you, nudges your legs apart so that your hips cradle his. You pull tight to him, dig nails into his shoulders, hook your legs over his hips.

“Easy,” He murmurs, soft and against your lips, forces you to slow down, to feel the steady press of his body to yours. And as if he can sense your desperation, the ache that’s built in your core and in your chest, he hushes, “I’ll take care of ya.”

It makes you whine, soft and high, a sound that you don’t entirely recognize from yourself but that he drinks down in another kiss, thorough and deep. Your cheeks have turned pink and warm, your stomach fluttering. His hands wander, over the sheet that’s gotten caught between the two of you, it makes you squirm. You want  _ more, _ want  _ all of him _ once more. 

He kisses down your neck, drags soft lips against the line of your collarbones and shoulders. Slides the sheet down with him, kisses gentle in the valley of your chest, the hollow of your ribs. You shudder, gasp, tighten your hand in his blonde, light hair. The white sun catches his face, casts him in glittering gold, soft and hazy. 

He kisses a scar on your hip, flickers eyes up to see your face. And for some unexplainable reason, you’re trembling, and you bite your lip, once more feel the sudden and unexpected urge to cry. You are joyful and aching and open, you realize, softened beneath the touch of his hands and warm lips. You squeeze your eyes shut as he slides between your legs. 

His mouth is warm and coaxing and you fall apart against him with a cry, a twist of his hair. He crawls back over you, cradles you to his chest, murmurs, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” All soft and full of promise, opens you and fills you. You kiss him deep to disguise the hiccuping breaths of tears, tender and grateful. 

And you shatter again for him, bright and dazzling like the snow beneath the light of dawn.

* * *

 

The next time you are allowed to see James, he is covered in gore and blood and darkness. It washes vermilion and rust down the drain of the shower, beneath the too-hot water that cascades over you. He kisses you hard, teeth clanking, full of need. 

“Missed you,  _ kukalka _ ,” He murmurs hot against your throat, nips at the vulnerable pulse point.  _ Babydoll, _ he calls you in Russian. “My  _ dragă,” _ He continues, babbles  _ sweetheart _ in Romanian now, mind switching and scattered as he grabs at you.  You groan against him, clinging to him as desperately. It is messy and imperfect, makes you hurt and burn and ache, but it is what you love and need, what you deserve. 

And when you both finish, violent and frenzied and needy, he drawls against your cheek, “Perfect for me, doll.” In an accent that sounds startlingly similar to another’s. Brooklyn, almost. Old-fashioned. You hear this voice rarely. 

Your heart twists, you hold him closer, tighter, until you have to let him go. Until you have to watch his eyes go blank again. 

* * *

 

_ “A symbol to the nation, a hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice." _

Your curiosity had won out over your better judgement and you find yourself at the Smithsonian, wandering the winding exhibit of one Steve Grant Rogers. Children race around, dressed in red white, and blue. People gather by pictures and old, grainy videos of their valiant Captain America. You knew he meant a lot, knew he  _ did _ a lot, but you didn’t quite understand the scale of it all until now. 

_ "Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare." _

You round a corner where you come face to face with a Steve much smaller and scrawnier than the one you are now familiar with. Children gather around the image, judging their own height to his. You are taller than him, you realize faintly. 

_ "One that would transform him into the world’s first super-soldier. Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes.” _

You become keenly aware of the fact that you are both made for war, that you are both made to have been soldiers. Perhaps that is your draw to him, perhaps that is his own unconscious draw to you, too. You blink. But he  _ chose _ to be a weapon, a tool of war. You were not given the same choice.  

_ "Their mission; taking down HYDRA, the Nazi Rogue science division.” _

You scoff at that, at the voice that rings out in the museum. They did not stop HYDRA. If they had, you wouldn’t exist the way you do. If they had, Alexander Pierce would not sit at near top of SHIELD. But you press on anyways, round a corner and come face to face with—

_ "Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both school yard and battlefield." _

Your jaw goes slack as you stare at old, black and white footage of a familiar face. He’s younger, lighter, his hair is shorter but it is undeniably your James. Bucky. He’d told you  _ Bucky, _ all those years ago. And you watch as he stands beside Steve, as they both laugh together, open and lively. You have always wondered what his smile looked like and now you see it, beside Steve. 

Your heart stops, you think, stutters back to life.

_ "Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.” _

Nobody knows, then, you realize. Bucky is dead to the world, to Steve. That’s why they have to strip his mind every time, that’s why they have to force him to  _ forget. _ Because he was like Steve, golden and  _ good _ and valiant. But they took him and they ruined him, shattered him in front of you time and time again. You had wondered before— wondered where he’d come from, how he found his way to you. And everything clicks now, slides into place for you. 

You know what you have to do, the plan to take down Pierce, Project Insight, HYDRA; one that had alluded you, that you’d struggled with becomes sharp in your mind now. All because of Steve’s return to the living, right into your life. It feels too heavy to be coincidence, so weighted that it could be fate. 

_ And ironic, _ you think, staring at the pair of them. At the only two that you have ever thought twice about. A surprising, broken laugh bubbles out. No one notices. 

You wish, with everything inside of you, that you had someone to share this with. Someone to laugh with you, to cry with you. Because the only,  _ one _ person that you have ever betrayed Bucky with, is his best friend. 

* * *

 

You follow Pierce into Director Fury’s office, with files and papers on Project Insight tucked into your arms. Your heels click against hard floor, your shoulders are back. You are hoping Natasha will be present, too. As she often is, lingering around Fury like a shadow. You know her not from her days of SHIELD, but from the KGB, when you called her  _ Natalia Romanova. _ You ran into each other on missions of espionage, at times worked together, when HYDRA and the KGB’s goals aligned. 

You shared a hotel with her once, undercover, in Paris. 

(She’d kissed you that night, tasting like the rosé from the party you’d been masquerading at and arsenic. The outline of her gun had pressed into your hip—)

She thinks you’ve gone straight, too, working for SHIELD. But she has it all wrong and backwards. You intend to change this, plant the first seed in her. 

Regardless, she is almost a welcome face to you. Especially when you enter Fury’s office, and she stands on the opposite side of his desk, her voice dying when she hears you both enter. She smiles cordially at you both, as Pierce and Fury greet each other like old friends. You hand over the files to Fury, who accepts them casually, though you are certain he knows the weight of them. 

And because you are also certain of Pierce’s inability to speak Russian, you turn to Natasha to greet her, touch the sleeve of her top and smile,  _ "Ne ver’ yemu,” _ you say as if you have given her a compliment or greeting in Russian. 

But in fact, you have said,  _ do not trust him. _

Without missing a beat, she smiles, touches your arm. It seems feminine and friendly between you two.  _ “Spasibo,” _ She says, and then in English, as if to throw them off, “Thank you.” 

Pierce questions you later, when you are alone. He hadn’t liked the use of Russian. “What had you said to her?” He asks, eyes locked onto your face. You reveal nothing. 

“Only that I liked her shirt.” 

“Why couldn’t you have said it in English?” He demands. 

“I miss Russian,” You admit, a wistful, longing sigh accompanying your voice as you make your face human and open and unassuming. “And she knows it. That’s all.” 

He mulls this over, swallows it down. Accepts it after a moment. He turns away, dismisses you with, “Don’t do it again. It’s rude to speak a different language. What do you think Nick thought?” 

“I apologize,” You say, but you are hoping,  _ praying, _ that Nick thought something of it, too. 

And you hope, against all else, that the seed of doubt you have planted takes root. You need it to grow, if this plan will  _ ever _ end up working. 

This is the beginning of a long,  _ long _ road. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You play careful games in order to lead Fury and Natasha in the right directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again and once more thank you SO much for the comments and kudos!!! it means so much to me to see that you guys are enjoying this!!  
> i'm just finishing up finals so this one took a little longer for me to write, but hopefully now i'll have some more time for writing!  
> thank you again and let me know what you think!!

**2015**

Two years of gathering information on Project Insight, on watching it slowly, painstakingly be built in the belly of SHIELD, masquerading as  _ good _ , leaves you feeling restless. As if you are waiting for something to explode and expand in your face. You’re on some sort of precipice, a calm before the storm. 

Pierce grows weary of Steve. You have befriended him in some way over the years, though tried to keep him at a distance after the first night. With all that you know, it feels too strange, too much like betrayal. 

But occasionally, Steve surprises you. And you surprise yourself. It’s hard  _ not _ to give into him at times. You remember fleeting moments, when he’d gotten too close to kissing you, when you’d gotten too close to kissing him. And the occasional moments that the distance had closed entirely between the two of you, left you trembling and full of adoration or desire for him, near desperate to be so close to him again. But then thoughts of Bucky would flood your mind, overwhelm you, threaten to choke you. All of those secrets you have tucked so deeply inside of you suddenly sit heavy on your shoulders, press hard into your back. 

And as if Steve can tell, he asks you, pensive and soft;

_ “What’s holding you back?”  _

_ “What are you shouldering, sweetheart?” _

_ “Do you want to talk, honey?” _

And each time, you tell him  _ it’s nothing,  _ each time you tell him  _ you’re fine.  _ You don’t know how to explain why you fight your draw to him, the way you try and put distance between the two of you. You know it confuses him; the way in which you recede from him after almost falling into his arms, into his bed, into his love again and again. 

It’s  _ so _ damn tempting, when he looks at you like you’re valuable and dear to him. As if you could nearly be the whole world; a devotee. Loyal until the bitter, fading end of it all. There’s a desperation between you two, one that you hadn’t known existed inside of Steve. There’s a hunger in him for you, a little darker than you’d thought; he tastes too similar to Bucky sometimes, in those sparse moments that you give in to your sudden, sparking need for him. 

You remember when he’d asked for your birthday, something you hadn’t mentioned to anyone since your sister had died. There was never a celebration, barely a  _ happy birthday,  _ if you even saw her that day. And Bucky didn’t even know the decade, you wouldn’t bother him with something as trivial as your birthday. But Steve had asked and you’d told him. You expected him to forget, you expected nothing. However, when the day rolled around, he’d caught you in your office. 

You’d been about to leave to meet with Pierce, standing in front of your desk, gathering papers to bring to him when Steve had walked in. You’d turned at the sound of the door, found him with a small cupcake in his hand, a candle standing tall from the lightly blue frosting of it. And surprise had flickered through you, heart squeezing because you-- you didn’t think you had ever blown out a candle on your birthday. No wishes, no dreams, no hopes for you in your world without stars. Only wide, empty darkness. 

But here Steve was, remembering you. Giving you a wish, a flash of brilliant, aching  _ hope. _

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He’d said all soft and fond and he’d gone in to press a kiss to your cheek.

But you’d been so caught up in your sudden emotions, so overwhelmed with the thought of  _ being remembered,  _ of feeling suddenly  _ cared for  _ that you’d turned and caught him in a proper kiss. And he’d made a noise of surprise, set the cupcake off to the side of your desk and eagerly,  _ hungirly,  _ kissed you back. 

And it was as if a key slid into a lock; you opened for him, let him in. 

You hadn’t been ready for the full force of him, of his desire. His hands were everywhere then; on your cheek, dragging to cup your jaw, the back of your neck. Into your hair. Pulling you flush to him, gripping your waist tight. As if you’d disappear if he didn’t. Maybe you would. 

Your head had spun with him, with the desperate nip of your bottom lip, the way he pressed you into the edge of your desk, knee going between your legs. You’d whimpered, swallowed by the deep kiss he gave you. 

You were heady with him, dizzy, control slipping, and when you pulled away, his eyes were fever bright before his lips slid to your neck. Claiming, sucking kisses and bites made you cling to his large frame, dig nails into his shoulders.

One hand slid between your legs, right beneath your skirt that was now rucked up high on your thighs. His fingers were quick, slid against the fabric of the lace of your underwear and you’d squirmed, jolted under his bruising grip.

Faintly, you’d wondered if you were  _ only  _ human, would his grip be too tight? Would he be hurting? It didn’t matter now-- not as you arched into him, hips pushing needy into his willing hands.

“I’ve missed you,” He had said low, into your neck, “I can’t get you out of my head.” He half-growled, as if you drove him  _ insane _ , and he gave you a firmer stroke of his fingers. 

And even if you wanted to agree, to keep rocking your hips into him, to show him just how much you appreciated the cupcake, the kindness; a flash of guilt had hit you like lightning. His words forced you to recall Bucky, the way he always sang praises, told you he missed you, that you were  _ his.  _ Your heart had dropped into your stomach with it all then. 

“Steve,” You’d gasped, warning in your voice. He seemed to have sensed it because he’d gripped you a little tighter. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” He’d near begged and it could’ve been your undoing. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” 

You almost gave in, almost said  _ fuck it,  _ but you sucked in breath, forced your head to clear. “Steve,” You half-pleaded with him, voice dropping to a whisper,  _ “I can’t.”  _

And that seemed to lift the haze of desire from him, letting his hand fall from between your legs. He stayed near for a moment, though, still crowding you against your desk. You didn’t want his warmth to leave, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky. “Okay,” He’d murmured, accepted your rejection like everything he did; with a sense of grace, of honor, and respect. Your heart twisted.

So he stepped away from you, cheeks tinged pink. He’d looked at you then, eyes still strangely bright, feverish with you, opened his mouth to speak again--

But now Pierce looks at you with beady, blue eyes, dragging you back to the present, memory lifting like a thin haze of early mornings. “I want you to keep an eye on Captain Rogers, do you understand me? I don’t want him getting in the way of anything.” 

You’d blinked up at him, eyebrow quirking. 

“Can you handle that? Or does your relationship with him jeopardize that?” Pierce snaps and it makes you bristle. You  _ hate  _ that Pierce knows of anything between you and Steve  _ or  _ you and Bucky. You want to covet your relationship with each, keep them safe, guarded and tucked away. 

But your face remains aloof, save for the slight roll of your eyes, “There’s no relationship  _ for me.  _ This won’t be an issue.” 

Pierce considers this, “Does he trust you?” 

“He’s very trusting.”

“Good.” Pierce decides, “Good, we could use that perhaps. Keep it, then. And  _ watch him.”  _

“I will.” You promise, though know now that you need to pay a little visit to Nick Fury. 

Which you do, almost directly after Pierce has left you. You walk into Nicky Fury’s office unannounced and you aren’t intimidated by the way he levels you with a slight, irritated glare. You stand tall regardless. Unfortunately, Natasha is nowhere in sight. She trusts you more than Fury does. Regardless, you have at least  _ some _ of Fury’s trust because you are Pierce’s assistant. He has no idea the betrayal that lies beneath him. You intend to change that. 

You know that Pierce has not  _ only  _ tasked you with the job of watching Steve and being sure he stays out of HYDRA’s way. You know Agent Rumlow is also keeping a keen eye on the Captain and that makes your skin crawl. 

You want to even the playing fields. 

“Pierce has requested a shadow on Captain Rogers, for his own safety.” You say, “He tasked me with finding an agent we trust to do so. Any recommendations, Director Fury?” Your lie comes easily and you pray it doesn’t wind up coming back to bite you. If Fury brings anything up to Pierce…

“Why is he concerned with Captain Rogers safety?” Fury asks, scrutinizing you. You don’t flinch away from his gaze. 

“Precaution. You know Alexander.” You reply easily, “He fears that Captain Rogers attracts far more attention than the usual field agent given his...status as an Avenger.” 

Fury considers this, silent for a moment. You try to remain open faced and casual as you stand in front of him. 

After a moment, he says, “I’ll enlist one of my agents.” 

“Do you have one in mind? I’d like to let Mr. Pierce know who it is.” You lie, you have no intention of telling Pierce, but you need to be sure Fury chooses a SHIELD agent, not a HYDRA one masquerading as such. You want at least one more person keeping an eye on Steve. If anything happened to him and you  _ knew,  _ and didn’t try and stop it--

Nick sighs, leans back in his chair a moment. “I do.” He finally says, and then, “Tell him I’ll enlist Agent Thirteen to look out for Captain Rogers.” 

You think back, wracking your brain for a moment to place a face to that name. Honey blonde, dark eyes. Sharon, is her name, you think. Sharon Carter. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, worry unfurling from your chest. She’s SHIELD through and through. 

“I’ll tell Mr. Pierce. Thank you, Director Fury.” You respond, and move to take your leave. But just as you are about to leave, you pause by the door, “And sir?”

He picks his head back up and looks at you once more.

“Do you, by any chance, know where Natasha is?” 

* * *

You find Natasha in one of the gyms, where she is seated on a bench, water bottle beside her. Her hands are wrapped, her face glistening with sweat, hair tousled and pulled away from her face. You are a stark difference from her at the moment, in your pencil skirt and heels that click and echo on the gym floor. 

She picks her head up, green eyes lighting up when she sees you. 

“Natasha,” You greet, give her name the lilting, Russian pronunciation it was meant to have. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She asks, a slight smile pulling at her lips. 

You move to sit beside her on the bench, primly, folding your hands into your lap. You cross one leg over the other and tilt your head, gazing at her, “Can’t a friend visit a friend?” You ask.

“Are we friends?” She replies, mischief glittering in her eyes. And though she is part teasing, part cheshire, there is another genuine question that hangs between you both. Your relationship predates SHIELD, predates all of this and you remember her in fleeting, smoky memories; sticky, lip gloss kisses and smeared lipstick down your neck, skimming knives tucked away on her body and sly, smirking lips. Rolling, dirty Russian words husked between kisses, between bodies.

You’re both definitely….something. Not quite friends, not quite exes, not quite lovers. Your moments with Natasha in the past were quick and surreal, like some sort of far off fever dream. There was no distinguishable beginning or end with your relationship, it simply appeared when she did, disappeared when you did. 

But you know odd quirks about her. You know she has a wicked scar on her shoulder blade, another on the top of her right thigh. And of course, the one Bucky gave her on the lower part of her waist. You’d kissed it soft when you’d found it; it’d been still pretty new at the time. She’d told you of her encounter with the Winter Soldier afterwards, entirely clueless to your connection to him. 

You were glad it had only left a scar.

“If you’d like to be.” You respond aloofly. 

Natasha hums in amusement at your response, “And would you like to be?”

Your instinct is to say  _ yes.  _ Desperately, you realize, you want a friend. Need a friend. You wished you weren’t so alone in all of this. Your chest tightens, loneliness and frustration claw at you, tear you apart from the inside out. You wish you could tell her everything suddenly, wish you could let go of all the secrets you’re keeping so tightly coiled inside of you. You swear you’ll burst one of these days;

_ SHIELD is actually run by HYDRA. _

_ I was made from the same serum Steve Rogers was.  _

_ I’m not Pierce’s willing assistant. My sister was killed for him.  _

_ The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s old best friend.  _

_ And I’m caught between them somehow--  _

“I could use a friend.” You admit carefully, giving her a sideways glance. 

“Just a friend?” 

“Just a friend.” You exhale, turning to look at her. And maybe there’s something in your eyes, something she catches, because she asks very bluntly;

“Is it Rogers?” 

You blink, heart swooping low inside of you for a moment, “What--”

“Is it Rogers that you’ve got on your mind?” She presses and you can’t tell if she’s curious or jealous or both. Maybe neither.

“We’re just…” Your voice trails off because are you friends with him, too? Can you say that? “There’s nothing between us.” You half-lie. You aren’t even sure if that’s true, but you force yourself to believe it. You have Bucky, you can’t have Steve, too. Or even Natasha. 

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, but regardless, she drops the topic. Maybe she can see how conflicted you are, the distress that creeps over your features, the guilt and emotions that roll deep inside of you. 

How many more secrets can you keep? How much more entangled can you become with all of them? 

These secrets won’t last forever. You only hope that if they’re going to leak, if they’re going to come spilling out like a flood, you’ll be able to make it out with Bucky. Steve and Natasha will be able to escape fire, too. You don’t know when they became so important to you, too, but you need to ensure their safety. So after a moment, you speak to Natasha in Russian;

_ “I need you to be cautious.”  _

Natasha cocks a brow at you,  _ “I’m always cautious.”  _

You swallow. Some deep, intrinsic part of you knows you can trust Natasha not to let anything you say slip-- or perhaps you’re so desperate to share, you convince yourself of it. Regardless, you turn to face her. 

_ “Do you know how I got to SHIELD?”  _

Natasha quirks a brow at you, then shrugs her shoulders in a slow rise and drop of them,  _ “The same as me, maybe.”  _ She guesses. It’s logical to assume that. 

But you shake your head the slightest amount, almost as if you hadn’t moved at all. Natasha catches it, and presses,  _ “Then how?” _

_ “Find out.”  _ You tell her, unable to look at her. Your heart thuds dully inside of you; this is the closest you have ever come to admitting any of this outloud. This is the closest you have ever come to even uttering that you have not had control of your own life for  _ decades. _ Your fingers squeeze, tighten where they are clasped together in your lap. Your breath comes in shallow and you feel suddenly lightheaded, panic threatens to constrict you--

Natasha sees this, eyes tracking you fast.  _ “Calm down.”  _ She murmurs, “ _ Breathe. Why can’t you just tell me?”  _

_ “Precaution.”  _ You respond clipped and quick, exhaling through your nose, and trying to regain your composure.  _ “Find out.”  _ You urge her again, turning to face her for a moment, catching her startling, green eyes.

But before she can respond, mouth opening and closing, searching for words; you stand, and flee from the gym, from Natasha. You only hope that she pulls on the thread you have given her. 

* * *

There is a night when Bucky goes to you; he’s supposed to be on a mission for Pierce. He isn’t supposed to be sitting in your bedroom when you return home late one night. The sky is devoid of moon, devoid of stars. A dark nothingness that engulfs the room. The drapes around your window flutter, window opened, night breeze cooling your room. He doesn’t startle you when you flip on the light to your bedroom, revealing him to be seated in the armchair in the corner. 

You do pause, though, wary. This could get you both in a severe amount of trouble. The unflinching, vacant gaze that he gives you indicates you’re talking to The Winter Soldier and not Bucky. 

“Does Pierce know you’re here?” You ask, shutting the door behind you. You don’t fear him, not even with all the weapons you can see on his body, made for violence and brutality. Usually, you are stripping him bare; no weapons, no strength, no soldier. But now he is before you in all his brutal, cutting glory. 

_ “Net,”  _ He replies in Russian.  _ No.  _

You wade further into your room, step out of your heels gracefully, settle them at the end of your bed. You begin to unclasp your necklace, take out your earrings. Just as you do every night. 

“You could get in trouble.” You caution as your last earring falls into your waiting palm. You set your jewelry on the nightstand before glancing at him. His eyes are fixed on you, dark, and shadowed. 

You reach around for the zipper of your slim dress at the back of your neck. Your back arches, fingers grasping for it. He stands silently and you feel your heart nearly stop, stutter, as he moves to stand behind you. 

There is an eerie, gentleness that overcomes him as he carefully, slowly pulls the zipper down, over your shoulders, the slope of your spine. Your back, vulnerable and unguarded is bared to the Winter Soldier. Metal fingers that are cool and a little startling make you gasp as he eases the dress from your shoulders. It falls forward, reveals your collar bones, the skin of your chest, which rises and falls quick, and fluttering, until the fabric falls away and pools at your feet. 

The brush of rough leather, tactical gear, and metal against your back makes you shiver. His fingers are still gentle, cold to the touch, as he unclasps the back of your bra, pulls it from you with a measured, slow move. He’s barely touched you and your’re already breathing quick, a flush slowly gathering despite the goose bumps that erupt over your skin. The warmth of his general body behind you is a sharp contrast to the cool night air, to his fingertips.

Your bra drops to the floor.   

And you barely breathe as his metal hand makes contact with your ribs, glides over the bones beneath. The gravity of the touch is not lost on you; the usual violence that his hands commit, now being used to touch you so delicately, so strangely soft for him. (The gentleness  _ almost  _ reminds you of Steve, the way Steve’s roughness  _ almost  _ reminds you of Bucky. Your heart twists, struggles).

 But he’s sublime. Terrifying and extraordinary and intoxicating.

 His hand slides to your waist, hooks in the line of your underwear and pulls them off with a slowness and patience you don’t seem to have, because you squirm, trying to ease them off faster and he grabs your waist with his other hand. His grip is tight, a little punishing, forcing you to stay still. You gasp lightly at the suddenness, at the jarring roughness, but you understand the message;  _ don’t move. _ Not unless he wants you to. 

So you still yourself as he slowly drags off the last article of your clothes, sliding down with them, until he drops to his knees. His hand touches your calf, soft, and you step out of your dress and underwear for him. 

He turns you then, to face him and you look down at him in the soft, faded light of your bedroom. The sight wrenches, bends, twists something inside of you into desire, into flame, and love, and brilliance. His hands skim up the outside of your legs and you shiver. When he glances up at you, his eyes are still stone and ice and unseeing. But he leans in, brushes his lips to the tops of your thighs; not in anything so firm as a kiss, but only skimming, sliding by.

_ “Sidet,”  _ He commands, voice rough and soft against your skin. 

And you obey for him. You sit back, at the edge of your bed and he eases between your legs, shoulders them apart with his broad body, all muscle and hard lines. His nose skims along the sensitive, delicate part of your inner thigh. Your hands drop to his hair, tangle in it, tighten as your breath shudders. 

“James,” You exhale, excited and apprehensive and feeling breakable in the best way possible. You want him to fucking shatter you. 

His eyes flutter at his name but he doesn’t recognize it, and he scolds you with a harsh bite that makes you yelp, sudden and high. Your fingers flex in his hair. It ebbs into a slow, sucking kiss that makes you arch. Warm mouth, cold hands that suddenly grip your waist and tug you close. 

His lips ghost over your center and you are  _ seconds  _ away from begging, feeling suddenly unhinged. Your heart is a trapped bird in the cage of your chest. He’s some strange, new creature of delicacy and viciousness and  _ you love him--  _ you love him but you think he’s going to ruin you. 

_ “Ty prinadlezhish' mne,”  _ He tells you with sudden bright, sudden sharp eyes that peer up into your face. He looks all predator. Monster. Killer. 

But you agree quickly, “Yes,” Half-begging,  _ “I’m yours.”  _

He rewards you now, opens his mouth against where you need him most and tightens his hold on you to near painful. His eyes soften, warm at the whimper you let out, as if some part of his very soul knows the sound. And he looks perfect. Angel. Savior. 

And he makes you cry; he doesn’t let up, he doesn’t make this easy and soothing. He forces you into hypersensitivity, begging and gasping in English, in Russian, in nothing half-words because he is  _ cruel _ and  _ awful _ . But you love him. You need him. 

He needs you, too. You can tell by the way he pushes into you later, the way he holds you as if your’re something to be coveted, tucked safely into his chest, right beside his heart. He rumbles in Russian about how you’re  _ his  _ and you’re  _ perfect  _ and you’re  _ everything.  _ He likes your tears, kisses them sweet, bites your neck sharp. 

By the end, it feels as if you’ve been torn apart, cleaved open with brutality, and delicately kissed with tenderness. He doesn’t stay, disappears in the pale, graveyard light of the city below your apartment like a phantom. 

When you see him again, it is after Pierce has gotten ahold of him. Bucky’s temples are bright and angry. He’s vacant and hollow and you can’t help the sinking, souring thought that he’s been caught for straying from his mission and punished more severely for it. 

You hold him against your chest in the shower, hurt and pity and fear burning through you for him, leaving a gaping, vulnerable hole in your chest. Hateness and bitterness for Pierce roll around inside of you, too. For anyone that has ever touched him. You feel monstrous with your anger and vengeance. Predator. Killer.  

_ “Ty prinadlezhish' mne,”  _ You tell him, kissing the ache of his temples, reverent and gentle. 

He slurs  _ “Yes,”  _ Then calls you perfect. Angel. Savior. 

And he makes you cry; wishing with all that you have inside of you for your brighter futures, for the small, kernel of hope and fury you have grasped at over the bitter, horrible years of it all. 

* * *

The STRIKE team is employed alongside Steve and Natasha to a SHIELD ship taken hostage. You know better. And you suggest to Fury slyly that perhaps it is wise to investigate a little, to pull information. You almost pray that the small seed of suspicion you have tried to plant in him has taken root. 

Natasha returns with a little too much ( _ hidden _ ) information. Fury looks at you differently. And you are certain that suspicion has begun to blossom. 

* * *

“1991,” Natasha says one day, catching up to your brisk walk down the halls of SHIELD. Your heart drops straight into your stomach. You glance around to see if anyone important has heard. No one has, you don’t think. Regardless, she continues, “That’s all I can find on you. Some HYDRA project in 1991.” 

You turn to face her, but before you can speak, she presses, “I don’t say this lightly, but you’re a hard girl to trace.” 

“Who do you think brought me to SHIELD?” You carefully guide her. 

“Fury?” 

You shake your head quick and small.

Her eyes light up when she finds the answer and your breath catches, excited and hopeful and scared. 

“Pierce.” She corrects herself and disappears from your side as if she’d never even been there at all.

* * *

“Bucky,” You murmur one night, under the pale lights of the shower. He doesn’t respond, but his flesh hand continues to draw strange, swirling patterns into your back. The water cascades over you both, steam warming and curling around you. His head is dropped onto your shoulder as you stay in his lap. 

You venture into unknown territory with a shaky question, “Do you remember Steve Rogers?” 

He stirs, blinking wet lashes against his cheeks, looking up at you. “Steve?” He repeats in a startlingly fragile and  _ small  _ voice. Your heart cleaves straight down the middle. “I-- I don’t--” And he looks so painfully  _ lost  _ and  _ searching  _ that you put your hands on either side of his face. 

“I can’t--” He blinks hard, eyes glittering with sudden tears. His breath comes in sharp and sudden, “Did I--  _ Steve--”  _

“Hey,” You try to hush him, to calm him, “It’s okay,” You murmur, pulling him back into you. “It’s okay.” You try to soothe, but you have a sinking, awful intuition that this is going to cost you  _ dearly _ in some way. 

* * *

Fury approaches you one day, in your office. He observes you as if he is seeing you for the first time. You hold his gaze, and hope that he  _ does  _ see you newly now.

“You’ve been leading me towards something,” He says quiet and low. You swallow. And  _ here  _ is your precipice, you think, here is that edge you have being anticipating and fearing and desperate for. You race towards it. For you. For Bucky.

“Yes,” You agree.

“Who can I trust?” He asks as if he _ knows,  _ and perhaps he does. Or perhaps he only knows partly or next to none of it. Regardless, it  _ is _ a good question to ask. 

“Steve,” You tell him, “Natasha, too.” 

“Anyone else?”

You shake your head and he allows that to settle inside him, as if he accepts it slow. You know there are others but-- but right now, those are the only two you  _ want  _ him to trust. 

“How much more can you lead me?” He asks then, shoving his hands into his pockets.

And you don’t get to answer, because Pierce enters now, eyes flickering between the two of you. Your stomach rolls anxiously, flipping over itself horribly. But you and Fury remain calm. Your eyes flicker, subtle, to Pierce and then to Fury. 

Whatever Fury sees in your eyes, he nods behind Pierce’s back. And you smile, “Mr. Pierce,” You say, but you feel predatory, as if he has walked into your trap, right into your waiting jaws and jagged teeth. You are hungry. 

But you ask, luring and mild and tempting;

“What can I do for you?” 

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr on my side blog @ until-we-fall-in-love


	4. Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce suspects Fury of knowing too much and devises his assassination. You try to warn him. Everything begins to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! sorry it's been a hot minute since I've updated, I was working a lot but thankfully things have slowed down! I want to thank everyone whose leaving comments and kudos, it's really encouraging to see!   
> I've also started another series, which is a 1920s AU, so check that out, too!  
> thank you for the support and let me know what you think of this chapter! :)
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

Everything happens wickedly fast now. Pierce storms into your office, face red, blue eyes cloudy with anger and worry. He looks a little disheveled, as if he’s been dragging his hands through his hair, pulling at it in worry. For a moment, you savor it. You hope he’s lost sleep over whatever it is that’s irritating him, at the least. 

You wish his overgrown, distorted, selfish heart would give out with his fear. 

It doesn’t, but you can only dream.

“Fury knows something.” He finally starts, stopping his pacing that had begun to make your eyes cross. 

You cock an eyebrow, feign surprise, “Are you sure?” You ask, “You’re not just being paranoid?” 

“Positive. He’s delayed Project Insight. He wants to look into it--” Pierce tears a hand through his hair again, ragged, frustrated. You rise, slowly, pretend to be the shoulder he’s always leaned on. The doting assistant that knows him  _ so _ well. 

“Sit, Alexander.” You say, gesturing to the chair in the corner of your office. “Before you tear out your own hair.” 

He collapses into the chair, trying to find his composure. He exhales slowly, becomes quiet and still for a moment. You know the wheels are turning in his mind, seeking out plans, ideas, weighing options and risks to the situation. Pierce is good at what he does; that’s why it’s taken so long for someone to even catch a whiff of his trail. That’s why you had needed to guide them. Faintly, it makes you wonder if you’re even better than him, then. Or maybe it’s worse. You don’t entertain the thought. 

“We’ll handle this.” You assure him, hoping to guide him away from any rash decision. Pierce isn’t known for them, but the look in his eyes; wild, desperate- it makes you nervous. 

“I never thought it would come to this,” He says instead and it makes you pause. “Well,  _ I did,  _ but I hadn’t thought so soon.” 

You weigh your options, your words carefully. But before you can suggest anything, he continues, “I’ve underestimated Nick,” He shakes his head, “But it won’t cost me. I refuse to let it.” 

“What do you plan to do?” You ask, walking around the side of your desk and leaning against the front of it. 

Pierce is quiet again for several, long moments. You try not to squirm. You wait, patient; you’ve been  _ so, _ painstakingly patient over the years. It eats at you. But finally, he speaks up again, “I want your eyes on him and Rogers. I’m going to ambush him with our own agents. Make it look like someone else did it, send SHIELD on a wild goose chase.” 

Your stomach drops. Your features remain schooled though, calm, and collected. You haven’t come this far to be shocked at Pierce’s cruelty now. But it does startle you slightly; Nick was supposed to be his  _ friend.  _ The crassness, the coldness with which Pierce speaks displays the monstrosity inside of him, warped and ugly. It’s clear he only cares about his own objectives. 

It  _ will  _ cost him, you decide.  

Already, a plan begins to form in your head. You won’t let him kill Fury. You won’t let Project Insight take into the skies, terrorize the world. You won’t be under his thumb for much longer. You won’t let him  _ ever  _ touch Bucky again. All of what you’ve been grappling with over the years is beginning to take form in front of your very eyes. 

“Yes, sir.” You reply, “Anything else?” 

“Nick isn’t going to be easy to take down, not quietly, either.” Pierce says, thinking, mind rolling. 

“No,” You agree, “Not at all.”

“I want the Asset prepped, in case all else fails. Nick will be dead by the end of the day.” He lets out a sigh, “A shame, really. But for HYDRA, yes?”

“For HYDRA.” You agree with a too-sharp, vicious smile. Pierce returns it. 

* * *

You have little time; Pierce is already giving you further details. They plan to ambush Fury in his car, using police cars as a disguise. He wants you to act as if everything is normal as always, continue your job, but he wants you to verify where Steve is. You try not to hurry to Fury’s office, forcing your pace to be normal. You grip the files in your hands; files on Project Insight that he had demanded from Pierce. Not to risk suspicion, Pierce had ordered you to give them to Fury. 

And on the first page is a sticky note from you, written in your left hand to disguise your own scrawl;

_ SHIELD is compromised. You’re in danger. _

You trust Fury to get rid of it as soon as he’s seen it. If Pierce finds out about this note-- you swallow. You don’t want to even consider the possibility. He  _ can’t  _ know. He  _ won’t.  _ He’ll be too busy now orchestrating Fury’s death, being sure things can’t lead back to him, that he’s still holding all the strings. 

Fury looks up at you from his desk as you enter his office. 

“The files you requested,” You tell him, heart stuttering, as you hand him the file, the note that lies on the top only for him. He takes them from you and you stutter, pause for a moment as he casually flips open the cover. 

His eyes skim the note, flicker over it once. You watch as a muscle in his jaw ticks and he swipes the notes, crumples it quickly, and pockets it. He looks back up at you, “Thank you,” He says, casual, but the way he gazes at you is heavier. 

“Of course, Director Fury.” You respond, meeting that weighted gaze with one of your own. 

You hope it’s enough of a warning. 

And before you turn to go, you commit him to memory in this moment, in case it isn’t enough. In case this is the last time you see him. You swallow, turn on your heels, and leave his office, feeling as if slowly, you are unraveling. 

* * *

You inform Pierce of Steve’s whereabouts; it’s a seemingly normal day for him, for nearly everyone, even as your entire world begins to shift and uproot itself. You find Steve in one of the gyms at SHIELD, watch as his fists collide with the punching bag in front of him, creaking and rocking on the chains that hold it up. 

You doubt it’ll last much longer. 

Despite your heels, you are quiet as you approach him. You aren’t sure why you do, except that Steve has always brought you a sense of comfort. The promise of something greater, the light in the cracks of spindly, reaching darkness. Glittering snow against the night, burning stars swimming in the bruised black and blue sky. You think of the night you met him and all that he’d made you feel; the kernel of hope and softness and love. 

Fiercely, you want to come out on the other side of all of this. You want Bucky safe and free. You want Steve to know everything, you want Natasha to know, too--

You want HYDRA to crumble, fall to ruin once and for all.

The chain creaks, snaps off its hinges and the punching bag goes sailing across the room. 

You peer at Steve, panting and glistening with sweat, tank top tight on his chest and torso. He looks a little surprised to see you, but his eyes light up. 

“You’re so quiet on your feet,” He says, but it seems almost like an inquisition, “Like Natasha. She always sneaks up on me.” He adds with a shake of his head, grabbing a towel from a nearby bench and wiping his face, flushed and damp. 

“Natasha and I share a...similar history.” You tell him, stepping nearer to him. 

He eyes you, his face softening as he catches something there, maybe your expression. Perhaps you don’t hold yourself as tall right now. It’s hard to walk at all with all the weight you bear. “You ever gonna tell me that history?” He asks and although it’s genuine, it has a bit of bite to it, a touch of hurt. He wishes you’d let him in. 

And you realize, you  _ want  _ to let him in. You’ve wanted to for  _ so fucking long,  _ but there had always been so much at stake. So many secrets that had shrouded you, wrapped tight around you like armor, kept you just out of his reach. You swallow. He’ll know soon and now comes the terrifying, stomach dropping realization that he may despise you for all of this. For all the lies, the deception. 

For knowing Bucky is alive. His best friend that he’d lost to a war, to the sea of time.  

Will he ever forgive you?

“Some day,” You say tightly and maybe your throat squeezes painfully, eyes suddenly glittering, misty.  _ Someday soon,  _ you think mournfully, whether you like it or not. “I only hope-- you won’t look at me any differently.” You get out, trying to keep your voice from wavering. 

_ Understand me,  _ you beg him. 

You can’t lose the gentleness with which he looks at you, that purity and adoration you’ve come to crave. 

And as always, anytime you need him, Steve is there. He stands, moves to you, brushes your hair from your face. Tucks it soft against your ear. Your eyes gutter, lashes fluttering against your cheek. 

“You wanna talk, sweetheart?” He asks in the softest, lullaby voice and it makes your heart squeeze painfully in the pit of your chest. 

_ Don’t hate me,  _ you plead, finding his eyes. He holds your gaze and his face is so vulnerable and eager to help, brows slightly furrowed as he assesses you, desperately tries to make you  _ right _ and  _ whole.  _

You shake your head, a tear slips free. Glides down the plain of your cheek and he catches it quick with his thumb. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, reverent and soft, half-begging you to open up to him. And you want to, you _ want to  _ but--

“Do you have anyone you can trust?” You ask instead, holding back your tears, “Outside of SHIELD?” 

He balks at the question momentarily but then he gets his bearings back, “Why?” He demands, searching your face; the tears that are being held carefully back, the rawness of your lower lip from worrying it. 

“Do you?” You press, a little more desperate. 

“I don’t know--” He starts, then stops, let’s out a slow breath as he ponders this question. And then finally, he decides, “I have someone.” 

“Good.” You exhale, relief flooding you. And then you step out of his touch, let his hand fall from your face, “Stay safe, Steve.” You say quietly, wishful and soft before you slip away from him entirely. You refuse to look back at where you left him standing, alone and beneath the stark lights of the gym, for fear of shattering like crystalline glass, ringing and sharp and unable to be put back together again. 

You vow to aid him in any way you can in the coming days, set your mind to keeping him safe. You can’t stomach the idea of the alternative, so you don’t. 

You’ve lost too much to HYDRA to lose him, too, you decide, and you try and set your heart in stone for what is to come. 

* * *

Pierce has tasked you with the job of giving the Winter Soldier his mission to kill Fury. He’s too busy pulling strings, trying to orchestrate everything and everyone so he looks like the best friend determined to avenge SHIELD’s honorable director before Fury’s body has even cooled. 

And so you descend, down into the belly of the rough beast that is this HYDRA base. It’s where they keep plenty of their secrets, bury them here without marking their graves. More importantly, it’s where they’ve kept Bucky. It’s where you have tended and washed and held him for far too many years. Everytime you are able to leave, steps resonating in the hollow darkness, and he is not, you have vowed to free him from here. 

That promise rings in your chest as you see him, sitting stiffly, quietly, as someone buzzes and tinkers with his metal arm. Sparks fly, casting ghoulish shadows across the plain of his face, his eyes catching the light in flashes. His jaw ticks and you wonder if it hurts him, if he’s in pain. 

You want to soothe his tense brow, push the man at his arm away, break his neck quick and sharp, and pull Bucky out-- just like you’ve promised. 

_ Not yet,  _ you force yourself to be calm, eyes flickering over the men with heavy, ugly guns that rest against their broad chest and guard Bucky. He could kill them still. You could kill them still, too. But you give them this false sense of security, let them keep it. 

When they see you, they recognize you, lower their aggressive stances, allowing their shoulders to relax. You’re Pierce’s assistant, dolled up in her heels and skirts and blouses. You are no threat, they think. You allow them to.

One of the guard’s eyes roam over your form, a little too slowly, because Bucky catches it and between sparks in the darkness, like lightning, his eyes flash. In a heartbeat he’s shot up; too fast for a normal human’s eyes and he’s disarmed and shattered the guard’s shin with a sickening  _ crack.  _ The man howls in pain, drops like a stone. Bucky’s face is impassive, unseeing. The other guard has his great, mighty gun pointed at Bucky’s head, fear written on his face and for a split moment you consider doing the same to him. You nearly lash out, your teeth baring slightly before you school your features. 

“Put your gun down,” You order and the remaining guard shakes like a leaf, quivering, pale-faced. 

“I don’t think it’s safe for you,” He responds as his friend wails on the ground until your headache blossoms into something fierce. You sigh. 

“ _ Soldat,”  _ You say to Bucky, the title foregin and bitter and disgusting on your tongue. You  _ hate  _ it. But he listens, eyes fluttering to you. 

_ “Ya gotov otvechat.”  _

_ Ready to comply. _

The stillness in his body, the obedience, the lack of life in his eyes chills you down to your core. Your stomach turns sickly. 

“Put down your gun,” You tell the remaining guard, “And take your friend. The Asset listens to me.” Finally, he scrambles to listen to your command and he drags out his friend who is still whimpering and whining. The man working on Bucky’s arm glances at you, then quickly follows after the two guards. You look on passively. The break in his shin is clean, practiced. When your eyes finally lift to find Bucky’s, he’s consumed by shadows. 

Your monster, your darkness, your heart.

“You are too possessive.” You say lightly, stepping nearer to him. He settles back into the chair robotically as you approach him. 

He doesn’t respond, eyes casting upwards to heaven, to you. 

And you reach out with a gentle hand, touch his cheek with a sweetness the Soldier knows little about. You think maybe Bucky knows it, but all the Soldier has learned of softness has come from you.

Quick, like a viper, his metal hand catches your wrist. Squeezes. The bones beneath are fragile against metal and steel, pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly against the iron cage of his hand. 

His eyes go bleary as he runs his lips over your palm. They’re warm and chapped against the skin of your hand. Your eyes flutter lightly and between one moment and the next, he’s reached out and snagged you, dragged you into his lap. It isn’t the time or the place, but you like the way he grips you, as if you’re all he knows, all he has.

For a heartbeat, you feel safe. Caught in the eye of the storm before it all is torn up from under you. But his arms are safe now. His lips press into your throat, opening to scrape teeth, sharp against the vulnerable vein there. 

You gasp at the sharpness just as he rolls your hips into his. 

“Bucky,” You scold, hiss through your teeth because this is  _ not  _ what’s supposed to happen. 

He growls, low and displeased, and doesn’t respond to his name. He pushes your pencil skirt up high on your waist, baring your thighs to him. His fingers slide and grip, roll you forward again. You squirm, try to dislodge yourself but are helpless to him. 

Besides, his hard body against yours feels  _ good.  _ The cool of his metal arm around you is tethering, the way his lips slide against yours is desperate and feral and promising. He does not draw this out, doesn’t even tease you. Before you know it, he’s fumbling with his fly, pushing your underwear to the side with absolutely too much ease and then he’s dragging you onto him. A burn and stretch before your body yields and he buries himself in you, groaning into the column of your throat. You mewl, claw at his shoulders as your filled and brimming and made begging for him. His lips are at your collar bone, the hollow of your chest between the neckline of your open blouse, lips wet and warm.  

_ “Moya lyubov’,”  _ He gruffs, sounding wrecked, eyes guttering,  _ “Ty idealen.”  _

_ My love,  _ he calls you,  _ you are perfect.  _

You can’t help the cry that bubbles from your throat, the sudden rush of emotions and heat with the way he pushes into you, deep and unforgiving and clinging to you too tightly. It’s  _ wrong _ , it’s the wrong time for love to be pressed into your chest with such brutalness. But it’s what you have and what you take. 

Neither of you last long. 

And when you’re only left with his labored breaths, sweat cooling, clothes still askew, your fingers crawl into his hair at the nape of his neck. His lips are at your shoulder, turning to hide in the crook of your neck, in your hair. 

You exhale shaky, reality seeping back into you, poisoning your moment with him. “I have a mission for you,” You breathe, pressing lips to the corner of his jaw. Your fingers squeeze the strands of his hair, hating that you have to order him to do this. “Hopefully it’s one of your last,” You confess quietly, sealing your lips to a tender spot beneath his ear. 

He catches your chin with strong fingers, lifts your face to find his. Blue eyes so cold and cutting, a scythe that slices through you, down to your core. And instead of his usual, obedient words, the ones drilled and programed and festering inside of him, he murmurs,  _ “Dlya tebya ya by vse sdelal.” _

_ For you, I would do anything.  _

* * *

Fury is killed by the Winter Soldier. You mask yourself well but something inside of you is crawling around with little care for your fragile, turning stomach and making you sick. The worst is when you see Natasha and it’s as if a piece of her mask has cracked, splintered and fallen away so you see a tender scar beneath. The porcelain, perfect and smooth, has broken to reveal a piece of her that hurts you to see. 

You pull her into a hug that she makes fiercer than you intended. She squeezes. Pulls away and looks at you, eyes scrutinizing. 

Guilt eats at you, presses hard against your throat and clogs it, stuffs your mouth with cotton. 

“I tried to warn him,” You whisper for her ears only, knowing that she sees a piece beneath your own mask, too. Cracked reflections peering into one another’s depths. 

“It isn’t your fault.” She whispers. 

The words don’t ring true, but you hold onto them, onto her for too long. 

 

Maria Hill grabs your wrist too tight when you try and offer your condolences. Her eyes burn hot into yours. 

“Nick said I could trust you,” She hisses, a quiet rush of air between bared teeth. 

“You can,” You try to assure her, “You  _ can.”  _

“Then  _ tell us,”  _ She presses, “Tell us so we can get out of this one.” 

Steve appears over her shoulder, but the word  _ us  _ rings sharp and clear in your ears. She shuts her mouth when she feels Steve’s presence at her back. 

“Soon,” You promise, before you tip your face up to find Steve’s.

Maria Hill slips away from you, quick, like a shadow, and disappears. And you don’t know where. 

 

And Steve, Steve is floundering; his eyes are too open. He’s struggling to find his footing, the floor having dropped out beneath him. He looks nervous, shifting, as if he isn’t sure who to trust. You wrap your arms around him regardless, pull him into a hug, hush your condolences into his neck. And he holds you a little too long, a little too bruising. 

When he pulls away slightly to look at you, he is looking at you differently. You swallow. And then he says, “Pierce has requested a meeting with me.” 

Your heart drops. This is the first you’ve heard of this, which means you aren’t invited. 

Perhaps he catches the fear in your eyes, the widening of them.

“Tell me,” He insists, half pleads.  _ Tell me,  _ he has begged of you since you met him. Let him in, bare yourself to him. 

Your mask is already cracked and splitting, so you let it break a little more. 

“Don’t tell him anything.” You breathe so quietly you fear Steve hasn’t even heard you. That you haven’t even uttered the words. 

But he nods, the slightest dipping of his chin. And he kisses your cheek, lingering, thankful, hopeful. 

* * *

Pierce declares Steve Rogers a fugitive of SHIELD. You already know that Rumlow and his dogs have tried attacking him and Steve had gotten out by the skin of his teeth. SHIELD is in scrambles, confused and seeking but obedient. They ready to hunt for their beloved Captain America.

You snag Natasha as agents flurry around you. Rumlow off to your left makes you bristle. But you say to her,  _ “Naydi yego pervym,”  _ And then,  _ “Ya kuplyu tebe vremya.” _

_ Find him first,  _ you urge her,  _ I will buy you time.  _

She does not respond, but slips through your fingers, tricky like a fox with the flash of red hair. 

You square your shoulders before turning to find Pierce. Your heart is a beast in your chest, worried and pumping and trembling. But you swallow and gather your wits and bearings and  _ anything  _ that might aid them before you step into Pierce’s office. 

You have time to buy.  

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	5. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're thrown back into the field as Sparrow as the hunt for Captain America continues. Maria Hill reveals a secret and you devise a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all!! i just want to continue to thank everyone for leaving kudos and such nice comments!! many of you have expressed your interest and excitement for this story and it truly means SO much to me to see that!! 
> 
> i apologize for the month it took me to upload this lmao i had some trouble with this chapter as it's a very eventful one! we're gearing up towards the end of Winter Soldier! once more, i just wanna say thank you again for the support!!
> 
> please let me know what you thought of this one in the comments!! i love reading your feedback!!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

**_2013_ **

_ Pierce has given you the day off; October 12th, 2013.  _

_ Two years ago, on October 12th, 2011, your sister had died in action on a mission in Ukraine. Her body had been recovered; Pierce had told you it was so you could bury her properly, but you knew it was for HYDRA, so no one else could replicate the serum in her blood. Regardless, you were thankful to have her back in any capacity, despite the bitterness that you had to swallow down each time you looked at Pierce. _

_ Sometimes you couldn’t even look at him. _

_ You’d buried her body alone, in a lonely grave, solitary and lost among all the others in a cemetery in Washington D.C. on a foggy, hazy autumn day. There had been no ceremony, no funeral, just you and the newly unearthed ground, the smell of petrichor thick and damp, and a small crane that had gently set her in. No priest, no religion, no God to pray to. _

_ You’d sunk to you knees beside the hole in the ground; you wished you’d known what her favorite flowers had been, if she’d liked them at all, wished the pale lilies you tossed atop the casket meant anything more than tradition; only an even number of flowers. Sticks atop it to confuse the spirits, vague Russian traditions you know but have never practiced until now.  _

_ HYDRA had never given her the chance to be anything but a weapon. You knew her better than anyone, she was so intricately woven with you, tethered by blood and tendon and something  _ human  _ and miraculous. Tied to you by experience and memory.  _

_ And yet, you couldn’t name her favorite color. Or if she preferred the rain to the sun.  _

_ Did she have any one else the way you had Bucky?  _

_ Was there anyone else you could’ve grieved with?  _

_ You hadn’t known then and any way of knowing, was buried deeply in the ground two years ago.  _

_ You stare at her grave now, her name etched prettily onto simple stone. Her real name, the one that you only spoke in stifling darkness, in the depths of HYDRA, when you were alone and together.  _

_ In your hands is a simple, black case. You’ve come to bury it behind her gravestone for hiding.  _

_ It burns your fingertips with the knowledge of its contents; a brilliant answer to all the contempt and vitriol hatred eating away at you since her death.  _

_ The solution, the salvation, the way you’ll destroy all of Pierce’s hard work. The way you’ll at least stun and traumatise HYDRA enough for you to leave with Bucky and never look back. _

_ Finally free.  _

_ You inhale, find your sister’s grave once more and wish nothing more than to be able to take her with you.  _

_ But now she rests here. Without you. You without her. Tears burn your eyes momentarily and you can almost hear her voice; _

_ “Tears for me?” She’d tousle your hair, push your head to the side. Always roughly loving. “I don’t need your tears.” But she’d give you the barest hint of a smile, all that she could ever give you. _

_ You swallow, reach for your shovel you’d brought, too, and begin your work. You are overly careful beside her grave, as if you’ll disturb her in some way. The ground is soft and yields beneath the spade of it, easy, you sift through the dirt until there is a deep enough hole.  _

_ And then you place the black case reverently inside where it will go undisturbed until Project Insight is nearly complete.  _

_ You bury it like seeds, pat the earth and beg it to keep your secrets safe, and hope for flowers to bloom. _

* * *

**2015, Present Day  
**

You have not put on the snug, darkly maroon catsuit in years. It grips you still, hugs the length of your body and forces your shoulders back. You haven’t been in the field for as long; traded pistols for fountain-tip pens and tactical gear for prim skirts and heels. It fits still, though, it’s still yours. The glock at your waist, the knife strapped to your thigh are all still familiar; old friends that you fall into step with despite the time that’s passed. 

You glance upwards at Rumlow’s strike team, impassively watching as they strap weapon after weapon to their bodies. Pierce has demanded you all go out and search for Natasha and Steve; he’s given the order to kill on sight, if they aren’t already dead.

They’d sent a missile straight into the old bunker that Natasha and Steve had been in. You’d ran to the bathroom and dry heaved the moment Pierce had announced in all his smug calmness that it’d been a direct hit. Your mind had swam, images of Steve and Natasha, pulled apart; human and flesh and blood. Mortal, despite it all. Dead, despite it all. Pierce had ordered a search for them, though, which meant there was hope. 

There  _ had _ to be. 

You take a breath through your nose now, suck in air, forcing yourself into an eerie calm. You tilt your chin up, sizing up the rest of the team, Rumlow. You’re faster, stronger,  _ superior  _ to them. You only have to find Natasha and Steve first, stall, hide them, lie for them. 

Your jaw ticks, fingers curling into your palms. 

Rumlow picks his head up to survey you, eyes too probing, sweeping over your body in a way that makes you bristle. The knife strapped to you becomes suddenly appealing, tempting to use. 

“Well, well, well,” He hums appreciatively, “I should’ve known Pierce’s personal assistant wasn’t only a pretty face.” 

You draw in a breath, offer a smile of secrets, coy and small, eyes hooded as you gaze back. Perhaps you can hold his attention, distract him a little. Any time for Natasha and Steve is good time. 

“It’s been awhile but,” You bite your lip, lashes fluttering up to him, “I’m excited to get back into the field.” 

He smiles, rolls his shoulders back, preening with the attention you’ve flattered him with, that broad gun across his chest puffing out like some absurdly arrogant bird. 

“I hope my men can keep up with you,” He says, but his eyes keep straying to your body, so the comment feels disingenuine; a line he uses to butter you up to him. Falsehood, with his wretched smile and prying eyes. 

He doesn’t see all of you. He never will. 

You pretend to glow beneath his praise, part your lips to respond when someone barks out a quick, “Rumlow!” And his attention of you is severed, head swiveling like that of a dog whose heard it’s name, too eager, over obedient. 

They call him over, and he gives you a parting glance, telling you smoothly, “Duty calls,” And wanders over to press forward with commands of the mission at hand. You try to keep an eye roll from overcoming your features, but you do finally let your face fall, shoulders tensing. 

You stalk off, boarding one of the helicarriers that will bring you directly to the sight, trying to keep your heart in your chest, refusing to think of anything but Natasha and Steve making it out alive and well. 

* * *

Nimble and quick, you ease your way through the rubble of the site, heart sinking with the sight that surrounds you. A piece of you, insidious and vile, hisses that there’s  _ no way  _ they survived this. But the greater, more feral and desperate part of you growls back that they  _ have to  _ have survived. You cannot imagine anything else, cannot even summon the emotions of grief, caught somewhere in disbelief. Maybe disillusion. 

Regardless, you press onward, searching with keen eyes for any sign of where they could’ve taken cover, found shelter and survived. You look for crevices, places where they could’ve hidden. You use all your senses, enhanced and pulsing from the serum in your veins; even smell, trying to pick out the tart cherry of Natasha and the linen clean of Steve’s scents. The tang of blood, even, burned flesh or, or--

You catch a movement far in the distance, scramble quick, darting and disappearing from any other HYDRA agents sifting through the destruction they’ve created. You catch the flash of blond, a slip of red, red hair and then you spot them. Steve, stumbling out into the open, with Natasha lolled against his chest, out cold. Your heart drops but you rush over, climbing and darting over stones of cement and beams of steal from the ruined building. You hear the distant  _ whir  _ of a helicarrier, push yourself faster, harder, until you collide with Steve and Natasha with a surprising amount of strength, forcing him down with all your weight. You push him into hiding nearly beneath a large slab of cement, watching as the planes with their burning, spotlights sweep over you, noticing nothing. 

Steve looks up at you from his knees, Natasha still in his arms, cradled there. 

“Are you okay?” You hiss, dropping to your knees in front of him. 

He stares at you a moment as if he can’t quite believe you’re real, blue eyes searching and wide and--

“Yeah, yes, I’m okay.” He gets out, voice strained, his breathing still ragged. 

Your eyes dart down to Natasha, hand suddenly hovering, as if you might reach out and touch her, brush a strand of her hair from her face. “Is she?” You press. 

“Yes,” Steve assures, “Just unconscious.” His eyes dart over you, falling to the catsuit, eyebrows inching upwards, “What are you--”

You shake your head to silence him, you don’t have the time, can feel the precious seconds that slip from you. “HYDRA is after you now. Kill order. You need to--” 

“SHIELD fired the bogey, though.” Steve interjects suddenly, confused, eyes swimming and desperate as he searches for answers in your own eyes. You can’t give them. 

Natasha stirs in his arms, but doesn’t wake. 

In the distance, you hear footsteps, undetectable to anyone without enhanced hearing, faint against the gravel. 

“Someone’s coming.” You both say at the same time and Steve’s face crumples in confusion. 

“How did you  _ hear _ that?” He snaps at you, baring teeth and hunching closer; secrets unraveling beneath his very eyes and he can’t keep up, already drowning in everything else, swallowed deep by the rough waves of mystery that have given him no reprieve. His blue eyes burn and simmer hot, azule and frantic. His brows are pulled together, not just in anger but anguish and distress. 

On his knees, he looks like a faithless man, digging for the answers that cruel gods won’t give him. 

_ “Listen to me,”  _ You snap back in a low hiss, little viper that you are, suddenly lunging, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket rough and scratching, reaching over Natasha to shake him. To  _ force  _ him into hearing you.

He’s taken back, blinking hard.

“Remember when I asked if you had someone outside of SHIELD you could trust?” You press, digging harder into his chest. 

“Yes.”  

“Go to them. Tell no one else.” You order, “Keep your feet off the dirt; stay on debris and cement so they can’t track you.” You continue, knowing what they’ll look for, knowing Steve isn’t a spy, but a soldier. He isn’t used to being hunted; feral, hungry hounds to a fox with bloodied feet. “Now  _ go!”  _ You snap, shoving at his chest. 

Steve stands, shaky, rising through ash. 

“Sam Wilson. He works at the VA.” Steve tells you then, unprompted, “Find us if you can.” 

A lifeline, an outstretched hand, is what he offers you. 

You swallow, keenly aware that you  _ don’t  _ deserve his trust after all of the secrets that you have kept from him, all of the darkness that you were born from and shrouded in. 

But you nod, “I will.” You promise, truthful and bare in front of him for once, standing as Sparrow in the ruins of a HYDRA building, on top of the secrets you plan to burn. 

He takes a final look at you, before turning and going, hoisting Natasha closer, footsteps careful and seeking cement. 

You wait, watch his figure leave, watch as he keeps low and near cover and darkness. He’s learning, transforming in front of your very eyes, as all men do when faced with the decimation of their faith.  

And when he’s out of reach, you roll your shoulders back, pretend to discover a footprint in the dirt. 

“Rumlow!” You shout and he turns, hound that he is, head cocked. He comes to you, heels beside you.  _ Fetch,  _ you think cruelly, and throw the stick in the other direction.

He looks down at the footprint, lets out a slow breath. He then brings his walkie to his mouth and it crackles to life;

“Bring in the Asset.” 

The blood in your veins turns glacier ice and black water. 

* * *

Sam Wilson, like Steve, is golden-hearted and full of a burning sort of hope in the good of people. In doing the right thing. He welcomes you into his house as if he has known you for years, offers you food and water as if you are kin. 

You decline him but the sentiment settles deep inside of you. 

His smile is open, like the sun parting from the clouds, the first warmth after winter when the air is sweet with spring. He tries to lighten the mood; you think in a better situation, you would really adore Sam. But, as it stands, anxiety and pressure have built to a buzzing, awful cacophony inside of you. It festers and you force it down, keep it in. 

You only hope to see that better situation some day.

Natasha is showering, washing away the dirt and the grime of the explosion. Sam is in the kitchen. Steve is in a spare bedroom, sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his dirtied hands. In this moment of stillness, you can see the stress that has settled upon him, heavy and unbearable; Atlas and his broad shoulders, now so weary and tired. 

You approach quietly and he only notices when you stand directly in front of him, your boots at the edge of his vision. He lifts his eyes to you, finds your face, and holds your gaze with a raw honesty that you almost try to hide from. You force yourself to hold his eyes, even if you can feel your heart collapse inward slowly, weakening and softening for the man beneath you. 

He lets out a slow breath, easing his bent back straight, rolling his shoulders back. He still looks up at you. 

“This is a new look for you,” He manages to say, voice soft and rough, a touch of resentment in the undertones, perhaps. Your heart squeezes painfully inside of your chest. 

_ Don’t hate me,  _ you plead. 

You tilt your head, worry your bottom lip, and let out a slowly gathered breath before admitting, “It’s actually very old.” 

“Is it?” Steve says too lightly, a hint of bitterness, his eyes flashing, “I suppose I would never know, would I?” 

“Steve,” You warn, breaking his gaze, turning your face from his scrutiny. You shift to cross your arms across your chest, close yourself off and hide from him but he reaches out, snags your wrist with a roughness you aren’t prepared for. He forces you open with his strength. 

Your eyes cut back to him, simmering, meeting his fiery blue; like the too-hot, too-bright part of a flame.

“Why have you  _ always _ forced me away?” He hisses, squeezing, pulling you closer. 

“Let go,” You bite back, giving a half-hearted tug of your wrist. 

“No,” He snaps back, teeth bared and a little vicious, “ _ Answer me.” _

“Because I had to!” 

Your breathing comes in quick now, labored and making your heart clench hard. 

And now you tug again at your wrist, leaning into the enhanced strength you have not used in years, and break free of him with a force he didn’t know you possessed. 

“For your safety! For my safety! For--” 

_ For Bucky’s safety.  _

The words get caught in your throat, lodged deep and you almost choke, gut wrenching horribly and for a sick flash, you believe you might throw up. All of those secrets will have poisoned you, you think, made you ill and toxic and nuclear. 

Your face crumples, eyes guttering, suddenly filling with bitter, frustrated tears that you have held down for _ far _ too long. As if they’ve been unearthed from the depths of your soul, suddenly springing forth, they fall down your cheeks, cutting tracks down that drip onto your chin and onto your chest. 

Immediately, Steve softens; he wanted  _ in,  _ desperately wanted to split you open and see what laid beneath and here, here he’s finally gotten it. You  _ want  _ to be angry with him, but you also know you’ve lied through your teeth, hidden yourself when all he has ever wanted was to unfurl you, soften the edges, take care of you. 

He has only ever tried to give you peace. 

 His hands reach for your waist, grasp around you and pull you forward, into his lap. You fall easily, down, down into broad, warm arms that are safe and secure. 

“Let it out,” He murmurs, crushing you to his chest, tucking you close and bundling you in his arms. He cradles you, your hands squabbling in his shirt, on his shoulders. Your face presses to his neck, legs dangling over his thighs as you finally break beneath all of the pressure. 

“I wanted to tell you--” You cry, your knuckles tightening on him, “ _ So  _ badly.” You get out, half choking. “But it’s me versus an empire and I can’t--” 

“I would’ve helped you,” Steve insists, “We could’ve helped you.” 

But he doesn’t understand and he won’t until he sees the full, brutal picture of it all. Until he understands where you were unmade and what brought you here, to this very moment. He won’t understand until he knows about your sister, about the way in which you met Bucky, all that you’d lost or never had. All those that had tried to sink their hands into you, mold you, make you, control you. It had been all you’d known for  _ so long _ , until your world had been rocked, shaken so thoroughly by the death of your sister and the emergence of your new life with Pierce. By the way in which Bucky had settled himself into your heart as if he’d belonged there all along. 

The way Steve had slipped into your heart, as gently as the falling snow had been the night you’d met him. 

You shake your head, jerky movement, damp cheek pressed to the skin of his neck. “You don’t understand,” You tremble, voice shaking, “There’s so much more, Steve.”

“Then tell me,” He insists, as he always has, squeezing you, hand cradling your skull, fingers tangling in your hair. “Tell me, sweetheart,  _ please.”  _

You pull away from him slightly, look into his face, so deeply concerned and vulnerable. Your fingers touch his cheek, trace the line of his face as you look up at him hopelessly. “I don’t have time now.” You whisper, tears still slipping from your eyes. “After all of this,” Your fingers drifts to the line of his jaw, “I’ll tell you everything. I promise.” 

Steve’s eyes flicker over your face, searching and seeking for something in your expression. When he finds whatever he is looking for in the depth of your eyes, his face softens, “Okay.” He agrees softly, pressing his forehead to yours, “Okay.” 

“Just,” You swallow, choke back another quiet sob, body tensing as you swallow it down and hold it back, “Just don’t hate me, when you find out.” And you shut your eyes to his gaze, another gush of warm tears cutting down your cheeks. 

His fingers flex in your hair, tightening a fraction, “I could never,” He says so quietly that you fear you have misheard him, the warm, soft press of his lips suddenly at the corner of your mouth. “I could never hate you.” He murmurs and you haven’t opened your eyes to him, to the gentleness and care you will no doubt find in his face if you do. But his lips pass over yours, reverent, and you should push him away but you’re boneless, pliant in his arms as his lips slant over yours. 

It’s a delicate kiss, but open-mouthed and yielding. You shouldn’t, but you allow yourself a moment to be kissed by him. To kiss him back and feel the slight brush of his tongue to yours, the pass of his lips against you. You shouldn’t, but you arch up, press closer, kiss back. A broken, desperate noise comes from Steve, his hands still cradling you, holding you close. 

Faintly, you hear the shower turn off, the sudden quietness that fills and swallows up the room. It’s all you need to find the strength to pull away from him, to suddenly twist and squirm away, shifting to stand back up onto shaking legs. You turn away from him, from the bathroom door, and there is a question on his lips before he hears the creak of the door. 

You wipe your tears, swipe at your lips, and when you turn back around to face Natasha and Steve, your mask is solidly back in place. 

Steve marvels at you a moment, at the jarring transition. Moments ago you were in his arms, tear stained and fragmented. Now you are seemingly whole again, but your eyes are still red-rimmed, lips kiss stung but your face is neutral and impassive. 

Natasha is changed, toweling off her damp hair. She flicks her eyes over you, over the catsuit, “I haven’t seen you like this in awhile.” Her head tilts slightly, “Little  _ Vorobey.”  _ She half purrs, forcing you to squirm under her gaze. 

Steve’s eyes shift between you two, before settling onto you curiously. He asks, “What does it mean?”

“It was what they called her.” Natasha says before you can answer, “And they called her sister the  _ Stervyatnik.”  _

Your eyes burn into Natasha, unused to speaking so openly about such a removed and distant part of your life, feeling suddenly exposed. She seems unaffected by your gaze. 

You swallow, “It means Sparrow,” You tell Steve quietly, “And my sister was Vulture.” 

“You have a sister?” Steve asks, gently probing, the beginnings to a long,  _ long  _ conversation. 

Your head pulses with a dull ache. 

“Had.” You say quietly, “I had a sister.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

You shake your head, shrugging his sympathy off and rolling your shoulders back. You tuck the memory of your sister back, deep into the burrows of your mind. Lock her tight to your chest. Perhaps another day you will tell Steve all about her but now is not the time.

“I need to be leaving soon.” You announce, eyes flickering between the pair, “I’m glad you’re both okay.” You say with earnest, suddenly reaching out and snagging Natasha by the arm.

“You’re getting soft,” Natasha says with a curl of her lips, cat-like and sly, and you surprise her by pulling her into a hug.

She is still and unmoving for a moment, before tightening her arms around you, too, tucking her face into the crook of your neck and exhaling. 

And it reminds you of another time, another flicker of your life, being tangled limbs and lipstick stains with her against satin sheets in foreign countries. Or bloodied hands and pistols against hips, knives tucked on the inside of smooth thighs. You’d both been so cold then, so distant and strange and hard. Sleepwalking girls, puppets on strings, digging fingers into each other’s skin in an attempt to find something they couldn’t control of you both.  

“One of us has to, Tasha.” You mumble and you can feel her smile against your neck, despite her seemingly neutral expression when you both pull away from one another. 

You let out a slow breath, just as Steve stands, and you move to him, too. You rise up onto your toes, hand balancing on his chest, and press your lips to his cheek. His eyes soften, dip into a half-lidded position. 

You glance up to him, a breath caught between the two of you, a flood of unsaid words that hides, trapped, and pressurized behind a dam. For now, you hold it there, for now you push against the tide. For a heartbeat, you fear he may kiss you again, so you step away. 

“Jasper Sitwell is having a meeting with Secretary Stern later today, around three in the afternoon.” You inform both of them, and they cock their heads, narrow their eyes, but take the intel silently and gratefully. They aren’t quite sure why you’ve said it yet, but you trust them to figure it out. 

“Stay safe. I’ll see you as soon as I can again.” You promise. 

“You, too.” Steve murmurs, taking a longing, last glance at you, as if he’s committing you to memory, before he retreats into the bathroom now. He leaves you and Natasha to each other and the quietness of the room. 

The moment you hear the water of the sink, you find Natasha’s light eyes, a renewed urgency to you as you hiss, “They’re sending him after you all.” 

She doesn’t pretend to play dumb. You watch as she straightens, seizes into tenseness, face suddenly pailing. She  _ knows  _ you mean the Winter Soldier. She swallows, opens her mouth, but then closes it. 

“I’m going to try and force Pierce to take you all captive; he won’t execute Captain America with the public watching. The moment they give him the command, I’m going to call in news sources to broadcast it. Just _stay alive.”_ Then you inhale shakily, “And, try-- try not to kill _him_ , either.” 

Natasha’s eyes dart to you, scrutinizing. Your eyes turn pleading and you can’t find it in yourself to care; not when it comes to Bucky and his life. You’d beg, right down on your hands and knees, if it was what she wanted. When she doesn’t respond, you press,  _ “Please, _ Natasha,” Voice wavering, “For me?” 

She finally softens slightly, her own stuttering exhale, “I don’t think I could if I tried.” 

Faintly, you recall their own shared, distant history. You aren’t sure if she means physically, or emotionally and you don’t care. It’s enough. 

You nod, a slight dip of your chin, “Thank you.” You whisper and turn to leave. 

When you catch Sam in the kitchen, he turns to you. “It was good to meet you,” You tell him despite it all; another piece of you is infinitely grateful for the largeness of his heart and loyalty. You wish you could express this to him, thank him for keeping two of the most important people in your life safe, without faltering, without question. You marvel at the quickness to which you now want to include him in that circle, too. Perhaps in time. 

And he gives you the warmest smile, as if you are an old friend, “You, too.” He leans against the kitchen counter smoothly, eyes glittering in the morning light, “I just wish it was under different circumstances.”

You nod, “Well,” And you find his eyes with your own shimmering eyes, “Hopefully I’ll meet you again under better times.” 

“I hope so, too.” He tells you sincerely before you duck out his front door and into the peach and pink of dawn. The chill of morning clears your head, touches your newly dried cheeks, and for a moment, you feel the freshness after a thorough crying, the newness of your heart. 

You set your jaw. You have to find Maria Hill.

* * *

Thankfully, she’s been trying to find you, too, and the moment you step into SHIELD headquarters again, she is snagging you with a pinching grip to your elbow. She falls into step beside you casually, as if there is still a rouse and there is, in some way. 

Not everyone is aware it is HYDRA in control. But you are certain she knows now. 

“Come with me,” She tells you, quietly, out of the corner of her mouth. Before then saying casually and more loudly, “I need clarification on some of the papers Pierce sent over.” 

You nod and follow her lead. When she’s certain eyes are not on you, when you’re blended in with others, in the blind spot of cameras, she leads you out to a parking garage and you follow her into her own sleek, black, stealth vehicle without another word. 

You don’t ask where she is taking you until the city bleeds out and you are surrounded by towering trees and forest life. 

“A secure facility with only those we can trust.” She responds simply and again, you are struck by this  _ we.  _ You eye her, but keep quiet for the rest of your journey, certain she will only beginning speaking of plans and schemes once safely inside. 

Once there, she leads you in and deep into the belly of this grand place, down into darkness, past absurd amounts of security and locks that you aren’t even sure are at the SHIELD headquarters. 

But what the final door finally reveals is a ghost, lying prone in a hospital bed. 

Nick Fury stares back at you. 

You are almost surprised. 

More shockingly, though, your lips curl into a wide smile, and you find you’ve never been happier to see him than now. Leave it to Nick, you think wryly, to cheat death, get out of the grips of Pierce and stow away. 

His lips lift up into the slightest of smiles, too. “Thank you for the warning.” He says genuinely. 

You bow your head slightly, a little marveled and humbled by him, “Of course.” You tell him, suddenly wish it’d been  _ him  _ who’d found you, the way he’d found Natasha. It could’ve been him who’d taken you and given you a purpose of security and the protection of people. But instead, you received the other side of the coin. The fates had not been so kind. 

But you’re trying to change that now, you assure yourself, pushing and fighting against whatever destiny had been originally given to you.

“We need your help.” Fury says then, trying to ease himself up slightly, but he’s too battered, too broken to move that far. Maria goes to his side, but he waves her off. “What are your plans? Since I know you have them.” 

You blink, unused to someone being aware of your capabilities in such a way. You have always been hidden behind Pierce and an unassuming smile, behind all of your secrets. But Fury looks straight through you now, with his single, burning eye. 

“Pierce has sent the Winter Soldier after Steve and by default, Natasha, and now Sam Wilson, I’m afraid.” You respond, “The moment the order is given, I am going to call in news sources in hopes of gaining mass public attention. Pierce will not give a kill order to Captain America while the country watches.” You let out a breath, “I hope for their arrest. I’ve already warned Natasha of this.” 

“From there?” Maria presses, scrutinizing you. 

“Eventually, free them, before they  _ are  _ killed.” 

“We want them here.” Fury responds, “So we can form a plan to stop Project Insight. You have a plan for that?” 

You suck your teeth for a moment, a pause, “I do.” 

Fury’s brows hitch up, expecting, awaiting. 

“When the helicarriers were being built, I studied their mechanics to find a way to destroy it. As you know, they have a targeting chip that they will use to pin and lock onto targets. I crafted three, separate targeting chips that would instead target the helicarriers themselves, destroying them, once I swapped them out before they took to the skies.” 

Maria’s lips fall open slightly, perhaps in awe. 

Fury’s eye crinkles, almost in amusement, or pride, or the barest hint of wonder. 

“Where are these chips?” He asks.

“Buried behind my sister’s gravestone since 2013.” 

 And this time Fury’s face splits into a grin and he whistles lowly. “You’ve been at this since 2013?” 

“2011, actually. The moment the files of Project Insight were placed in front of me.” You answer honestly, freely, feeling lighter, as if you are letting go of baggage. Slowly, you are shaking off secrets, like brushing snow away as spring begins to warm the earth. Change is around the bend, so close you can almost taste it. 

“Can you get Rogers, Romanoff, and Wilson here?” Fury then presses, “So we can get them to swap out the targeting chips?” 

You wrack your brain for a plan that would allow that without Pierce’s suspicion, while also keeping Bucky safe. “I don’t--”

“Can you get me a uniform that one of the STRIKE teams will use when they arrest them?” Maria suddenly speaks up, turning to look at you. 

You tilt your head, as if you can see her own plan forming and shaping in her mind. It’s clever, a little risky, but it might just work--

“I can do that.” You assure her, forcing yourself to be able to. You don’t know how yet, but you’ll make sure she does if it will guarantee their safety. 

“Then I’ll take care of the rest.” She returns, holding your eyes, simple and straightforward, honest for you to see her intentions. 

You think you like Maria Hill. 

“Give us the location of the targeting chips, and we’ll take care of those, too, while you keep Pierce distracted and unaware.” Fury then says, “How soon can you rendezvous with us again?” 

“I’m not sure.” You answer truthfully, “With the sudden move in the date of the launch of these helicarriers, Pierce will want me by his side.” You tilt your chin up, “But I will go with whatever plans end up enfolding, so long as the people  _ I  _ care about are safe and the helicarriers end up destroyed.”  

Fury’s eye pins you for a moment, studying you, assessing you once more. “You know we’re really trusting you with this.” He says slowly.

“With all due respect, Director Fury, but I’m also really trusting you, too.” You respond and watch as his face shifts slightly, easing, accepting your answer. 

And with that, you tell him the location of your sister’s grave; a place only  _ you  _ have known since she was buried. 

You allow them to unearth all that you have concealed for the last several years and hope it sets you free, in some way. 

* * *

Another secret unravels the same way a stitch can when pulled correctly. 

Steve knows that Bucky is the Winter Soldier. 

You’d been with Pierce when the fight had taken place, carefully having tipped the news broadcasters to the fight until the circled with helicopters and too-bold photographers, forcing Pierce’s hand. 

“Take them alive if there’s people watching.” He’d growled at Rumlow, dragging an irritated hand through his hair, “We’ll deal with them in private.” 

And Rumlow had scampered off to finish this fight, to take them into custody.

You’d gotten Maria Hill the uniform she’d requested, viciously hoped that she pulled off her own plan of smuggling them out. The moment they had Steve, Natasha, and Sam in handcuffs, Pierce was ordering you to come with him. 

“You know the Asset better than I do.” Pierce begins as you follow after him, knowing he is leading you to where they hold Bucky. “Are you concerned at all with his connection to Rogers and the use of his name?” 

You’re almost taken back; perhaps by the acknowledgement that you know Bucky better, or perhaps for his concern that his brainwashing has not fully sank into Bucky. In fact, you worry deeply about this; you have since the moment Rumlow had called him in. You knew it was inevitable, in some ways, but now you worry for Bucky’s safety in the hands of men like Pierce. 

“I’ve never experienced any severe lapse in him that his trigger words have not taken care of.” You lie, precious pearled truth hidden behind your teeth like a treasure. 

Pierce grunts in responds, descending down with you, into the pits of this jail, of this hell that makes you ill to walk into. Rumlow catches up and trails behind you, giving you a half smirk upon seeing you. You force back a frown. 

You keep pace with Pierce’s brisk walk, even in your heels that you’d changed into, back to the pretty assistant with a pale blue blouse. 

You’re both greeted with a man at the door, “Sir, h-he’s unstable. Erratic.” He tries to get out and immediately, your heart drops fast and hard. You try to keep your breathing even. Pierce bulls through the door though, not even glancing at the man. 

You swallow as you see all the guns pointed at Bucky, where he sits, lifeless and bleary, bare and with his arm gleaming beneath the lights that are too harsh on him. 

You suddenly wish to shield him, stand in front of him and growl at the others to  _ get away.  _ But you force yourself to still, to try to remain neutral as Pierce lifts his hands and signals for them to all put their guns down. He stands in front of him. 

“Mission report.” Pierce commands. Bucky doesn’t even flinch and you wish he’d just comply, just comply and spare himself. “Mission report  _ now.”  _ Pierce barks, his nerves fraying. 

Bucky stares, lifeless and lost, with watery eyes. 

_ Please,  _ you silently beg him,  _ please speak.  _

Pierce inches closer, studying Bucky’s face too closely and you want to shove him away, tear into him, bristling at the way Pierce looks at him. 

The slap is sudden and jarring and you gasp as if he’s struck you. Bucky’s head whips to the side and without thinking, you stutter a step forward, as if you’d go to him and you want to-- you  _ want to.  _

You think about killing Pierce, think about taking the knife strapped to your thigh and slitting the vulnerable artery of his neck. Then cupping Bucky’s stung cheek with bloodied hands, promising freedom from this wretched place and these  _ monsters.  _

“There was a man on the bridge,” Bucky finally speaks and you have to keep your face from crumpling at the sound of his voice, so lost and foregin and gravely. “Who was he?”

You could cry because you know already, he has made a severe mistake by revealing the truth of his surfacing. You wish he would play dumb, spew a mission report but his poor, helpless brain is so  _ fucking _ scrambled and you’re not sure if you’ve made it worse or better over the years by trying to get him to  _ remember-- _

 “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.” Pierce responds. 

Bucky shifts, his eyes suddenly darting out, finding  _ you,  _ pinning you like a butterfly to a board. “I knew him.” He tells you and you force a breath in and out slowly because you think  _ yes, you do know him. And I know him. You loved him once and I love him now-- _

Your chest cleaves with the look in Pierce’s eyes, the way he glances to you, then back to Bucky before slowly taking a seat in front of him, so they are eye level. Bucky bows slightly, shoulders collapsing inwards as he looks away. 

“Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time.” Pierce presses, assuring him of his goodness, tricking him because you think Bucky was probably too good, as golden as Steve, so they had to tell him he was doing something valiant and  _ good.  _

You feel like you’re going to be sick, stomach suddenly jolting horribly.

“Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re going to give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.” Pierce tells him, unnervingly calm. 

Bucky’s face shifts, brows pulling together and he looks so fucking  _ hopeless, _ adrift and trying to hold onto  _ anything  _ tangible and constant. So he looks at you when he says;

“But I knew him.”

It is your undoing. 

The simple, clear ache, the knife in the chest. And you’re an open, frayed nerve, heart spasming painfully and head swimming with the recent reminders of your dead, dead sister and the pain of the serum they’d forced in you and every time you’ve watched them torture and strip Bucky bare and raw. The broken look in Steve’s eyes when he’d realized nothing was what it seemed, and Natasha’s split mask revealing her own turmoil before she’d hugged you too tightly over Nick Fury’s battered body. 

You are a series of anguished moments, seeped in darkness and dismal, nothing outlooks that had forced your sister into a ghost. Forced you into submission. Forced Bucky into a weapon. 

“Prep him.”

Pierce’s voice cuts through the room and you whip your head to him. He doesn’t even glance at you. 

You swallow down your scream. 

“He’s been out of cryo freeze for too long.” A man shakily warns. 

“Then wipe him and start over.” Pierce says and your face goes slack, mouth parting before you can stop it. 

It is not the first time you have seen this but for some reason, it feels like the worst with the way Bucky’s face crumples, eyes seeking  _ you  _ as if you could stop it. As if you could help him. You want to turn away, but know that he needs you now more than ever so you give him your eyes. 

_ Be strong,  _ you plead to him and his gaze hold yours until they can’t any more. 

They force him back in the chair, slipping the mouth guard in and he is too obedient. The cuffs lock around his arms to hold him down and he seizes up, chest suddenly heaving because he  _ knows  _ what’s coming and you  _ know  _ what’s coming. 

Rumlow is watching with a morbid curiosity and you think of clawing his eyes out with bare hands, fingernails digging  _ deep  _ until he cries--

The machine whirs to life and you watch in horror as it stutters to settle around his head, heating up into an electric current. Bucky exhales a whimper, just before it clamps down tight onto him and he  _ jolts  _ as the sound of sizzling and sparking zips around the room. 

He screams. And screams. And screams. 

You watch because you have to. Pierce leaves and you don’t follow. Rumlow leaves and you don’t follow. You wait until it is just you and the scientists that have tortured him for too long and Bucky is slack and blank faced in the chair. 

“Leave,” You snap at them and when they don’t move fast enough, you grip the knife from your thigh holster and fling it across the room, letting it slight against the cheek of one and he startles, yelping.  _ “Now.”  _ You snarl and they stare in awe for a moment and you wish you could’ve sunken it into his skull. They scamper out quickly, until you are left with Bucky and the cold metal of the room.

You go to him and release his cuffs, his body suddenly slumping forward so you catch him, easing him so that his head lays against your chest, cradle him there beside your heart. 

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, so no one but him can hear but you don’t even think he can hear you, either. “I’m sorry.” You whimper, carding your hands through his hair and keeping him tight to you. “This is the last time,” You cry, tears dripping down onto the crown of his head. “I promise,” You sob, rocking him slow and soft.  _ “I promise.”  _

You wail, howling quietly into the cavernous jaws of metal that surround you. For you and your losses. For him and his. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care who sees you as you take care of him as if he is the only thing precious in this world. 

Because by tomorrow morning, you will disappear with him; far, far from wretched monsters who have done this to him. 

“We’re so close,” You tell him, lifting his face to yours but there is nothing there, blue eyes dim and pale and gone. He is a shell. Your lip wobbles, tears spilling down your cheeks and dripping onto his. 

“It’s almost the end.” You murmur brokenly, fingers digging into the skin of his jaw desperately. 

“It’s almost the end.” You vow, begging for that hopeful ending, those better circumstances that you have fought so awfully for since October 12th, 2011. 


	6. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that you've been planning comes to fruition. End of Winter Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! i just want to apologize for taking a little too long on this chapter, i went on vacation for a week and have been busier lately so thank you for waiting!! as always, i love to hear what you guys think, so please let me know!!
> 
> i'm already working on the next installment of this series, so hopefully that will be up in the next week or so :) i'll try not to make you guys wait as much!
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

When the dawn of the next day is rosy and new, still streaked with blue darkness and stars, you leave Bucky and return to the hidden base that Maria Hill had brought you to for a final rendezvous and update. You still need to return to your own apartment, shower; Pierce will expect his pet to be nothing short of pristine on his biggest day. Exhaustion seeps into the back of your head, aching and sore. You will not rest tonight. 

You have not rested since you vowed to end this, you think. 

And you won’t rest until you and Bucky are safe and far from the reaches of any prying hands. 

Natasha, Steve, and Sam are with her and Fury. They give you their plans as they begin to suit up, slowly armor themselves. Natasha will go undercover as Councilwoman Hawley, she will be with you the entire time the chips are being placed by Sam and Steve. They plan to cause mass chaos, alert everyone to HYDRA in hopes of drawing out anymore hope; hope that Steve still has. 

You have a harder time seeing the promise in it, are truly fearful to see just how far reaching HYDRA has become, but you don’t have the heart to deny Steve of this hope.

They plan to kill Alexander Pierce. 

“If you cut off one head,” You begin tiredly, but it is Steve who finishes it;

“Two more shall take its place.” 

Your eyes catch and hold before you have to turn away from the imploring blue of his. You cross your arms over your chest, squeeze the meat of your own arm. Your fingernails dig lightly into your skin, a prickle of pain as you imagine Pierce dead. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, yet strange, and distant. A dream so far off, you can’t even imagine it. It makes your stomach curl inwards, suddenly anxious. If none of this works, if you’re revealed to be a traitor to HYDRA--

“Do you want to take the shot?” Natasha asks, jarring you from your twisting thoughts. 

The question is considerate; coming from another who perhaps knows what it’s like to be made and unmade into girl weapons, perfect in every way. Her voice is cool, calm. All eyes turn to you and you squirm under their gaze. You think about all that ferociousness you’d hand only hours earlier as they fried Bucky’s brain for the thousandth time. How much will personally taking Pierce’s life do? Will it soothe something in you? Will it feel good? 

Should it?

You become wary. 

Pierce has been your captor for years, kept you on such a tight leash, made you small and puppet and hostage. He’s never harmed you, never struck you or threatened you, but perhaps because you have never outwardly disobeyed him. He believes he is the hand that feeds you, gracious and kind, you would never bite him. 

He thinks you know nothing else but his commands. 

And before his commands, Karprov’s. 

Before Karpov’s, faceless trainers in ghostly Russia. Pale and faded with time, swathed in the grey light and skittering shadows of your childhood . Who is it you can blame on all of this? Who is the shot that you truly want to take aim at? You don’t know. You don’t think you’ll ever know. 

You’re not sure it will make a difference. 

You think the only thing that will soothe you is Bucky’s safety and freedom. Steve and Natasha’s safety. Your own, long awaited freedom. 

You aren’t sure you have ever been free, not truly, not fully. The idea is large and overwhelming, something you can't even fathom yet. 

“I don’t need to.” You answer with a quiet breath. “As long as I see him die, I don’t need to.” 

Natasha nods, green eyes a fraction softer as they gaze upon you. 

“Then he’s mine.” Fury declares and your head turns at the sound of his solid voice. He looks like a man who has something to settle and you’re certain he does. He looks at you, then, as if he seeks your approval. As if he has an inkling of what Pierce’s death means to you, all that it symbolizes; the breaking of your binds, the outstretching of your wings. 

You nod, give him that approval. 

“Is there anything we should expect in the next few hours?” Hill speaks up, “Any last information you have? Advice, even?” She asks, a hint of dryness to her tone. 

“Yes,” You say quickly, “Pierce plans on giving each council member a “badge” that will give them access to the building, but it has a small explosive he can detonate which  _ will _ kill you, should he choose to.” You direct your attention to Natasha, “Which, is possible, the moment Steve makes his announcement.” 

“Is there a way for you to switch mine out?” Natasha responds. 

You shake your head, “I don’t have them. I won’t have access to them.” Your brows furrow as you try to think, wrack your brain for a way to get around such a deathly flaw in your plans. “And even if I did, I don’t have time to make you a decoy.” 

“Is there a way to deactivate them?” Sam speaks up, “Destroy them before Pierce can use them?” 

You blow out a breath, “There’s always a way to destroy things, it’s only--” Slowly, the idea forms in your worn down mind, sluggish and probably stupid, but, “An electric pulse would short circuit them.” And you can already hear Natasha sighing. 

“Are you suggesting I taser myself?”

You rub at a knot in the back of your neck, peak sheepishly at her, “Perhaps.” You glance at the others, “Unless anyone else has any other ideas.”

When no one speaks up, Natasha rolls her eyes, “I think you all just  _ want  _ to see me taser myself.” 

You give her a wry smile, tired and wane, but try to show her that you’re appreciative, “I’ll make it up to you, Tasha.” 

Her eyes glitter in the shadows, a little mischievous, promising you all sorts of trouble. “I’m holding you to that,  _ malen'kiy vorobey. _ ” 

_ Little sparrow.  _

You have never liked that name until it has rolled off her tongue, or been touched by Steve’s. Not as an agent of HYDRA, but an alias, a title, a name of your own. The little bird with quick, beating wings that builds and works diligently for it’s nest. Originally given to you because you were frail and pretty to look at compared to the others; half mocking, half in crudeness. 

Now it is yours and only yours and you feel as if you have wings, finally unbound, ready to take flight and be as fleeting and exuberant as the little birds in the sky. 

* * *

Steve catches you alone before you leave once more, his eyes so gentle and prodding. You are so exhausted that you can’t find your guards, wonder how well he can read you. Wonder if you smell like Bucky, wonder if Steve has any clue. Can he tell by the haunted look on your face that you were holding Bucky’s slack body after being tortured? What would he say if he knew? 

“How are you feeling?” He asks instead, only concern for you.

Awful. Terrified. Excited. Desperate. 

Stupidly hopeful. 

“Exhausted.” You tell him instead, let your shoulder slump. And before you can ask the same of him, he is already responding;

“I bet.” And his face softens, “You’ve been waiting for this day for years.” 

“Yes,” You admit on an exhale, “Yes, I have.” And strangely, because Steve seems to have this effect on you, this ability to completely unravel you in a myriad of extreme and emotional ways, your eyes well with tears. Just as they did the night you met him, when he touched you so tenderly, in so many other quiet moments between you two. “I have been waiting years for this day.” 

Steve nods, eyes heavy for you, his hand coming up to cradle the swell of your cheek, your jaw. He guides you into looking up at him, “You’re going to be free soon.” He says on a whisper and to hear it aloud, makes you inhale sharply. 

A tear slips down your cheek, pristine, free. 

_ Free, free, free,  _ your heart pounds like that of a bird’s wings taking flight. 

“Yes.” You agree hopefully, breathlessly. 

“You’ve paid such a high price for it.” He adds quietly, as if it is a revelation, something he is understanding for the first time in this moment with you. And he’s looking at you like you’re a vision or a ghost or a gem. Something precious but something unyielding. Something whole and something shattered, reverent and awed and heartbroken for you. As if he feels your losses, too. 

You wonder if he does, wonder if he mourns Bucky with you without even knowing it. He doesn’t know the full picture in detail, but he’s starting to grasp it. 

And the acknowledgement is almost too much for you to bear the weight of. You  _ have  _ paid the price for this, for years, in your sister’s life, in Bucky’s. In yours.

“Yes,” You repeat, lip wobbling, “I have.” 

“Whatever happens today,” Steve continues, swiping away a tear with his thumb, “I promise I will ensure your safety and freedom. If Pierce lives, if things go sideways,” Steve holds your eyes, honest and intense, “I  _ promise,  _ I’ll do anything to keep you from him. From all of HYDRA.” 

No one has ever promised you protection like this before, no one has laid their hand so gentle to you, with no restrictive touch, and simply loved you and believed in your freedom. Perhaps Bucky; but it is a primal part of the Soldier that guarantees your safety, savagely desperate to keep you. Bucky could never promise you such freedom when he is caged, too, leashed more severely than you. But this, _this_ ; what Steve promises is something you don’t have words for. 

Nothing besides a rushed, truthful, “Thank you.” Just as the sun breaks outward in a flare of morning gold and vibrant pink, the dark blue washing away to reveal the eager day. “Thank you, Steve.” 

And he kisses your damp cheek, let’s you slide away from his embrace so you can both ready for the battle ahead. 

* * *

You return to your apartment, shower under high pressure and heat, as if you can burn away all that you’ve gone through. Your skin becomes raw and tender, but it wakes you, burns you, fuels you. 

Washes all away until you can step out a new person, wear cream and white clothes, and turn away from the black darkness. You walk with a new air, strip away your shadowed mask until it is just  _ you,  _ in the light of a new day, swathed in satin and pearl.  

* * *

You dutifully take up your position beside Pierce, are certain that all is in place for his grand day. He walks tall and proud and bloated on his excitement for Project Insight, for the death of millions. Of freedom.

You greet the councilmen with ease and grace, Pierce introducing you the way he does every time; as if you are a pretty toy, a well behaved tiger for show. You play hostess, do tricks, find that your sharp, little smiles have become genuine because this will be the last time you play this part. 

Soon Pierce will know. He will know who got the best of him when no one else could. He will know what it’s like to lose that which he loves, know your betrayal, know the claws and teeth he’d thought you’d never use on him.  

You pour champagne; a celebration. Pierce makes a toast. 

You raise your glass but it’s for yourself, for all your years suffered. The cost of your freedom. 

Steve’s voice crackles to life over the intercoms. Pierce freezes, blood leaving his face and you could almost laugh. In triumph. In bitterness. 

Steve speaks the truth, voice ringing and clear through all of the Triskelion. You watch the councilmen shift, uneasy, slowly wrapping their minds around what has happened. Who Pierce really is. You stand still and straight and tall, just as Steve finishes, and you feel his words personally, as if he speaks to you;

_ “And I know I’m asking a lot, the price of freedom is high; it always has been. But it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it, but I’m willing to bet I’m not.”  _

Accusatory eyes sharpen on Pierce, just as guards march out. The councilmen think they’re SHIELD, but they aren’t. You know this, fingernails biting into the palm of your hands. You knew there’d be guards but it makes your skin crawl with nerves nonetheless. 

When none of the councilmen comply to Pierce, when no one believes his words of  _ safety _ and  _ freedom, _ he is handed a gun. You shift behind him, worried, eyes glancing to Natasha. If she doesn’t do something, you will--

But the moment he raises the gun, Natasha is a blur of emotion. She easily disarms Pierce, takes out the guards, and then raises back up with the gun now pointed to Pierce. 

She sheds the electronic veil, revealing herself. Not part of the plan, but neither was Pierce’s sudden, potential violent streak with the councilmen that don’t agree. You shouldn’t be surprised, but you can also tell that Steve’s announcement has deeply rattled him. 

“I’m sorry, did I ruin your moment?” Natasha asks, smug as she is. 

And instead Pierce looks at you; your ace up his sleeve. His eyes glitter, almost excitedly, as if she’d never expect this. When you don’t move to disarm Natassha, to engage or try to protect him, he narrows his eyes. 

You stand prim and proper, uncaring. 

He says your name.

“Disarm her.” He then tries, “Get me out of here.” 

Natasha’s lips curl into a vicious, little smirk. The cat that’s got the canary.

“No,” You say lightly, “I don’t think I will.” 

Pierce face falls and you think this is the first time you’ve ever seen him this shocked, this rattled. His face drains of color. His mouth hangs open for a moment. It’s  _ satisfying,  _ and you can’t help your own slight, twitching of a smile. Victorious. Proud.

And then his face contorts, fury tracing the edges, his eyes clouding over. “I gave you  _ everything.”   _ He says dangerously, as if he poses a threat to you. Without his guards, without his dogs around him, he’s nothing. Just a man, power-hungry and desperate, grasping at anything. “I set you free!” He snaps. 

His entitlement of you is unsurprising, but just as vile. You look over him lazily, uncaring. 

“A gilded cage is still a cage, Alexander.” You reply cooly, calmly.

His fists squeeze, face turning an ugly shade of red for a moment. He presses his lips into a thin, angry line. He’s trying to keep his composure, “You’ll pay for this.” He warns darkly, “Deeply and dearly.” He says, scrambling for something, anything to scare you with; no sister to use against you, only;

 “I’ll kill him.” Pierce’s words are venomous and promising. When your jaw ticks, he pushes on, “Your precious soldier. Don’t think I’m so naive, I know you care for him--”

You keep your mouth shut, dare not allow him to know that you plan on disappearing with Bucky. No snide remarks that you both will be far from Pierce’s reach by the time this is over, you only turn away from him as Natasha heads over to the computer, ready to wreak her own havoc. 

You can practically hear his groan of frustration, but you pay no mind. The broad, transparent screen gleams to life, just as Natasha begins her process of being able to leak all of SHIELD and HYDRA’s demented little secrets. You exhale slowly, remain silent and watching as Natasha and Pierce exchange a few words about clearance, before you hear the  _ whir _ of a chopper in the distance. 

Nick Fury’s return from the dead comes with impeccable timing and style, gliding in like the phantom he is. He has his own questions for Pierce, his own need to find truth in all of this deception. You turn, find your eyes landing on the battles that forge onward on the helicarriers, on the ground below. You can catch glimpses of Sam, evading bullets, somersaulting through the air. Soaring high, a modern Icarus flying for his life. 

You can’t find the stark blue of Steve’s suit, the gleam of Bucky’s arm. You have no idea where the pair of them are, only hope for their safety. Your fingernails dig into the palm of your hand, prickling of pain as you turn away from the window. 

You watch as Fury and Pierce give their retinal scans to allow Natasha further access, and just like that, all of SHIELD and HYDRA’s secrets are uploaded for all to see. 

The information of your own life, all that HYDRA has on you, on your previous missions, on your sister, is buried somewhere on the internet now. For anyone to see. Perhaps it should frighten you, but there is nothing but a slight release. No more hiding, no more shadows, no more being a secret puppet for the next master to pull on your strings. 

You suppose, perhaps it could also mean more interest on you, if the wrong person unearths your file. But the truth is worth it, bright and glittering in front of you as you look at the screen that has just leaked all, it is something you have been reaching for with outstretched fingers since you became aware of  _ what  _ and  _ who  _ you are to HYDRA. Since you realized there was more to being their war doll, their concealed weapon on a leash. 

Your eyes slide back to Pierce just as his fingers twitch for the remote he’d been carrying, his last resort. You jolt towards him, ready to disarm him but the councilmen all go down in bursts of hot light. The smell of burnt flesh, sound of groans fill the room. Pierce eyes you as he raises it towards Natasha and your heart drops, halting your advancement on him.

Natasha and Fury’s weapons click, ready for use, as they’re pointed at Pierce but it’s clear he has a moment of control. Natasha could ignite her taser, fry out the small pin on her collar but she’d be down and out; her and Nick exchange a glance. They don’t blow their cover yet and both lower their weapons. 

For the moment they allow Pierce to try and reach out to others, to get the helicarriers locked onto their targets and ready. He’s engrossed in it, desperate to save this. But you can tell that Natasha and Fury know something he doesn’t; perhaps they’ve already gotten word through their comms. that Steve and Sam have been successful. You cling to the thought, right as Pierce orders the shot.

And for an eerie, passing moment, nothing happens. 

The helicarriers stand still in the sky, strange, ugly crafts blocking the sun. You near the window, eyes no longer able to find Sam. You search frantically, heart skipping, threatening to drop. Where is he? Where’s Steve? And--

Then the helicarriers turn towards each other, fire at will. Tear each other apart.

You let out a breath, exhale hard, as if is the first time you can breathe clearly almost. Your chest constricts tightly as you watch what you have planned and hoped and worked for, lied and hid and begged for, come to fruition.

You are free, you think. Bucky is free. 

And you turn to Pierce, his face falling in quiet horror. 

_ I am your Destroyer,  _ you think as you gaze at him.  _ This is because of me.  _

“What a waste.” He mutters, shoulders going slack.

You want him to know, know who ruined all that he’d try to create, and you want him to know  _ why.  _ For your sister, because he killed her by sending her away from you. For Bucky and all that Pierce did to him.

For you; to cut your strings of him, walk now as if you are not being controlled by him. 

Pierce tries to walk Natasha out of the room, tries to get away. You watch as Natasha steels herself, back going rigid in preparation for the pain. Electricity sparks, constricts her for a moment. Her body jerks, shudders, before she collapses to the ground in a heap of blue.

You rush for her, drop to your knees, wary suddenly that your idea had done worse damage. Your breath comes quick. 

Two, clean shots ring out. Glass shatters. You shield her with your body as it rains down. When you pick your head up, Pierce is on the ground. 

“Natalia,” You hiss, grabbing her shoulder, jostling her. “Natasha.” You then try.

Fury is at your side then, too, trying to wake her. His own fear for her written in his eye. But the moment she blinks awake, mumbling about how those  _ really do hurt,  _ you’re up. 

Like a person possessed, you float over to Pierce. Sick fascination or unfinished business, you don’t know what it is, but it forces you to your knees beside him. The prim white of your skirt seeps scarlet, the stains slowly crawling up the hem. 

His eyes focus on you slowly, anger and even grief, the kind that comes with broken trust. 

“You,” He garbles, his mouth filling with copper blood.

“Me,” You agree firmly, find his wrist and seek out a pulse. It fades, slow and dreary. “It was me all along.” You admit because you need him to know. You let his hand drop into the glass he lays upon. 

His lips tremble, “Why? When?”

“October 12th, 2013.” 

His brows furrow, as if he is hurt by this, but there is also a flicker of something else, something unnamable at first, “For so long?” 

“Since my sister’s death.” You tell him calmly, “Since I discovered there was more to life than being yours or HYDRA’s.” Your fingers, quick and cold, seek the holes ripped through him. He tenses, jolts when you find one wound, press sickly into it. 

He croaks, blood bubbling, thrashing against the press of your hands but you are strong, so impossibly strong compared to him.

“And I have vowed to put you in a grave every time you touched my  _ precious soldier.”  _ You tell him in a hiss of breath, a quiet exhale, repeating his words to him cruelly. Your fingers dig deeper into the warmth of his torn flesh and blood. 

He surges further, knowing pain finally, knowing the torture and hurt that he put Bucky through. But he rattles out a laugh.

“I should’ve kept you on a tighter leash.” He gets out gruffly.

“No,” You say, fingers finally receding, slick with warm maroon blood, “You shouldn’t have put me on a leash at all.” 

You take a final look at him, at your puppeteer, at your gilded cage and then stand gracefully. You step over him, walk on glass, lily white seeped with poppy red. Pristine, except for the blood that drips from you. 

But you follow Natasha and Fury into the helicopter, and into the sky, quick and rising, like a sparrow taking flight.

* * *

Sam dives into the helicopter so harshly that he nearly bursts through the other side. You and Natasha grab for him, haul him upright and between you two. You hold to him a little too fiercely. 

“Hill! Where’s Steve? You got a location on Rogers?” Natasha hollers into the headset and your eyes fly wildly over the helicarriers crashing and burning, colliding into buildings and each other. Panic rises, mounts horribly inside of you and presses against your ribs with every push of your lungs. You repeat his name inside of yourself, repeat Bucky’s name, too, as if it will suddenly make them appear in your line of vision; alive and safe. 

“He was in the last helicarrier.” Natasha informs you all, “H-he told Hill to blow it while he was still on it.” 

Your head whips to Natasha, then back out to the helicarriers, which are falling in flames, torn to shreds. Sinking from the sky like great ships, astonishing and catastrophic. You have a horrible, sinking feeling that if Steve is on one of them, so is Bucky.

“No,” You say out loud, but your voice sounds distant and wane, far away. Maybe you stand to watch them, to watch what you created, your destruction, fall from the sky like a flaming comet. 

You have no breath in your lungs as you watch your worlds crash and burn in fiery glory. And if your loves are on that ship, you look on helplessly. You watch them sink. 

You don’t realize you’ve collapsed until Sam’s arms are around you; strong and warm and hauling you back into the seat. 

There are tears, dripping down to your chin, onto your collar bones. You can’t catch your breath, you feel like you’re being constricted, strangled in the most cruel way possible. To sit and watch, to sit and watch like all those years you watched Bucky be tortured and beaten and bloodied, promising him a future but it’s just  _ this,  _ just a fiery death that you guided him to as much as Pierce. 

And Steve, Steve,  _ oh Steve-- _

Natasha is telling you that _we’ll find them,_ _I swear to you_ _we’ll find them._

Sam is holding you down, against his chest and he is your only anchor as the helicopter careens over the carnage, over all the destruction and hellfire and they are nowhere to be seen, no hope in all of this wreckage.

So you cling to Sam and try to focus on Natasha’s swimming voice, watch desperately for any sign of the man you started all of this for, and the man you finished all of it for. But there is nothing and no one but ash and metal and wreckage, and your hope lies among it. Steve’s words ring inside of your head, echo and then sink deep into the pit of your stomach;

_ The price of freedom is high.  _

_ How high?  _ You mourn,  _ how high?  _ You plead with your eyes on the ground, searching, seeking, but soaring taller with every beat of your newly freed wings. 


End file.
